


Zistopia: Inner City Blues

by Greyhound1211



Series: Zistopia: Inner City Blues [1]
Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Interspecies Relationship(s), Novel, Relationship(s), Romance, Zistopia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greyhound1211/pseuds/Greyhound1211
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Premise: The year is 197-something. Or maybe very early 198-something. It has been roughly 15 years, or maybe closer to 20, since Zootopia has ended forced segregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars to regulate mood and base instincts. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, the latest in a long string of vaguely motivated predator murders, questions of power, greed, corruption, and control begin to arise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Zistopia](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/207439) by Nicholas Wildes(?). 



> My immense, heartfelt apologies to the artists over at the Zistopia web-comic (link below). I somehow found my way to your website and was absolutely enamored. So much so that I had to write my own story set in your universe. I hope you (guys?) don't mind, as I've put more work into this than I probably should have. Honestly, this is the first time that I've ever done fan-fiction, and weirdly enough it's fan-fiction of a fan-fiction. But, I just had to write it. I couldn't get this story and it's characters out of my head. Because of that, I'm not entirely sure how this story turned out, which actually makes really nervous. It could be godawful and I'd never know. I started on it last week and it's now a lot longer than I anticipated it being. If it turns out that this isn't really 'good', then I promise I'll scrap it and that will be it. If this seems like something you would all like to see more of, then maybe I'll upload more. Thoughts are immensely appreciated. Sound good? But, thanks for reading anyways. I'm glad you stopped by.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 1:

 

The radio at my hip chirps and barks its quiet chatter, informing any listeners to arrests and crimes in progress. My ears stand on end, listening to it, but, begin scanning again when nothing of interest comes through. It mostly consists of the usual suspects: public drunkenness, petty thefts, and personal emergencies. There's nothing like listening to a fire somewhere burning down an apartment building to keep you going at night.

I round a corner and trek up a smaller off-street near riverfront station on the Inner Loop Line. The short apartment buildings rise up on both sides of the street like uneven walls on a hallway. The businesses on the ground floor are all quiet, the windows dark, having closed several hours ago. Up above, on the second and third floors, windows illuminate the street.

Streetlamps here are more uneven, as this is an older neighborhood. I think this used to be part of a place called 'Happy Town', the segregated part of the city before it was undone about fifteen-twenty years ago, though most likely only the far edge. It's difficult to tell outside of the general ill-maintenance of the buildings and presence of more pred-themed advertisements.

My radio kicks up again and I slow to a stop to listen. The dispatcher gives out a few more instructions and requests, mostly far across town or for issues I can't respond to. A lot of the dispatches that go out are like that: ambulance calls and auto wrecks. I'm pretty close to Downtown, where the traffic is the heaviest, so hearing some old geezer wrecked his Coyote Roadrunner into a telephone pole isn't out of the ordinary.

"I wish something would happen," I mutter to myself.

And I do. I've been with the force for more than a year now. Having graduated near the top of my class, I had hoped to make it into the detective program within six months. But every time positions open, my name is unfortunately always left off of the list. And why? Because I'm a doe, that's why. I'm never sure if it's because they think I'm not physically apt enough for the position, or because they think my natural instinct to everything would be to run.

I guess it doesn't matter; my name is never on the list. My sergeant says it's just a matter of time, to wait for the next round of selections for promotions and classes, but that's in another month. I can only guess the outcome of that round, too: denied. Maybe they're just way too happy having one of the best new beat cops to grace their precinct in ten years to get rid of her. Yeah, that's it, I'm sure.

As I cross an alleyway, I glance back it and see nothing move. But I take a flashlight from my hip and point it back with a click. Bugburga wrappers litter the concrete, bent trash cans line the sides. The only thing that really stands out is the old posters hung up on the brick. They're for some bands up at the Aries, a club I've never been to, but hear about all the time. Clicking it off again, I move on, stepping over somebody's dumped bag of food.

A car cruises by with the low hum of a new engine, and I glance up to see a wolf behind the wheel. If he notices me, he doesn't let on. He just continues up the block and out of sight. I stop underneath a streetlamp and lean against it. The night has been unusually quiet. Well, except for the usual suspects, I mean. Even now, I can hear bottles breaking in the distance, the squeal of tires, and the general unease of the city.

"Calling all units, we have a possible disturbance in the area of Water and Stripe, please respond," the voice says.

Water and Stripe, that's about a block from here! I pull the radio from my belt and press down the talk button on its side.

"This is Officer Brooks, responding to disturbance near Water and Stripe; please advise," I say into the transmitter and begin walking forward.

The radio clicks off and there is static for a moment. Moving briskly up the street, wondering if this night has finally delivered on something to do, I wait for the radio. It only takes a few moments before it delivers.

"Officer Brooks, be advised, reports of violent engagement at 5150 Stripe Avenue, possible domestic disturbance. Parties involved may be armed and dangerous."

The radio clicks off abruptly leaving me with just that picture. With a bit of a smile on my lips, I break into a sprint. That address is even closer, possibly only a few minutes away. In the late hours of the evening, I'm able to break across the road without looking and hop up onto the empty sidewalk. Making it to the end of the street is just a matter of moments.

After taking a quick glance in both directions, I cut cattycorner across the end of the street to the corner of Water and Stripe. When I'm able to see up the street, I slow down and begin to approach more cautiously. Even though my reactions are good and my senses even better, I have no idea what this is going to be like.

I've had domestic disturbances turn into all-out brawls. Similarly, there have been officers responding to a simple assault or petty theft call to find out they've escalated into a kidnapping or a murder. The last thing that I want to do is stumble into a murder or one in-progress and end up on the receiving end of something nasty.

The building to my right reads 5190 and I slow my job into a slow walk in order to mask my approach as well as to observe anything pertinent. The street is like the last, similar buildings in a similar neighborhood. But here they're all residences. Even though a lot of lights are turned out, the blinds are pulled in most of the windows.

But animals peer out here and there. Not sure if they're at me, or at the building in question. Across the street, somebody leans out of their window and stares at the building, but retreats back inside when they see me. The window is slammed shut and then the blinds are pulled haphazardly. Whatever is going on here is definitely something more than a domestic dispute.

I stop near the stoop at 5170, an older concrete one that was more ornate before it fell into disrepair. There's an alleyway between the buildings into which a large ray of light pours. Quietly stepping forward, I look up and see a fire escape that climbs precariously up three and a half stories. At the top a set of bay windows is pulled wide open, curtains fluttering in the wind.

The escape creaks under its own weight and something crashes on the other side of the building, as if something hard hits the concrete and shatters. Gasping, my hand goes to my tranquilizer gun and I look around for any threats. But apart from myself, there's no one in sight. The alleyway is still empty, the street is dead, and no cars appear.

Creeping forward, towards the building's front door, I contemplate calling into the precinct. But as I approach and silence more-or-less takes over, I think better of it. The fight, assuming it was up there on the third floor, seems to be over. Or something else has occurred and I've yet to discover it. I hurriedly round the bottom of the stoop and push my way into the foyer on the first floor of the building.

Just inside, a zebra stands just outside of her apartment's door dressed only in her nighty. She turns towards me with a concerned look on her face and pulls her clothes tighter against her body. The foyer is cracked, old, discolored, and already decorated as if it's more than thirty years old. Because of this, the zebra's face communicates a look of surprise at seeing a cop in her neighborhood.

"What's going on, ma'am?" I ask of her authoritatively. "I'm here to help."

"Zee couple on de thurd floor," she begins certainly. "Dey are hahving deh most biolent fight I hahve evah hurd. I think she iz hurt; jew mahst hurry!"

I nod at her in appreciation and begin to sprint up the stairs. I pull my radio from my belt and hold down the broadcast button as I round the stairs to the second floor.

"This is Officer Brooks, reporting a possible assault at 5150 Stripe Avenue, please send backup," I say into the microphone. "Perpetrator may be armed, victim may be harmed. Please send ambulance."

There is no direct response, but the call comes out a few moments later requesting backup and an ambulance to respond to the scene. I'm just hoping that either the backup arrives quickly or that it isn't required at all. But as I reach the top of the stairs on the third floor, I'm thinking I may need that backup more than I first thought.

The hallway is drenched in light from inside an apartment to my right. It breaks every so often as something passes in front of it, but it's so quick and constant that it makes me think it's a broken fan. When there is light to see, it's obvious that something is coating the wall on the other side. But it's not nearly as obvious as the door, ripped nearly to ribbons, lying on the floor in the center of the hallway.

Not only is the wood completely destroyed, but as I approach, I can see that it's been ripped from its hinges. I swallow hard and pull my flashlight from my belt and click it on again. Aiming it towards the door, it highlights deep cuts, as if from the largest claws I've ever seen, are dug in on one side.

Lifting the light upwards, I shine it towards the floor where more claw marks are cut into the thick hardwood. They bound off of the door and onto the floor, slamming into the wall opposite of the doorframe and then continue up the hallway. At the very end is a single window that has been completely shattered outwards, as if by great force.

Somebody leapt from the window. As I'm pulling my light back, it catches something red. Turning it back, I see there's some blood where the claws dug into the flooring--and on the wall--and on the ceiling--and on the door. Oh, Jesus Capybara. I step back around the door and then turn my flashlight into the door. What I see I can hardly believe.

Blood coats the floor, getting heavier as it passes over an old rug in the center of some very old carpeting. It's torn up, as if there's been a massive fight. A coffee table has been thrown over, a couch has been utterly destroyed, and the ceiling fan above hangs precariously on its wire, swinging back and forth after being wrenched from its casement. Only one blade still sits on it, swinging around on its track surrounding the only bulb left in the room not broken.

Something happened here, something insane. Somebody lost their mind and started trashing everything, and obviously either turned on a sane friend, or two fought and one won. And the loser's prize, unfortunately, seems to have been death. Towards the back of the room, on top of another rug, is a gazelle. She's been torn to pieces, her fine dress ripped to tatters and strewn about.

Her blood leaks into every soft surface, glittering in the glow from my flashlight. It's hard to tell where the floor ends and her body starts, it's so damaged. It's even difficult to tell who or what she once was. As I enter the room, I try desperately to keep my hooves out of the blood splatter, but that's extremely difficult. It's everywhere. Oh, Jesus, it's everywhere!

"Dispatch, this is Officer Brooks," I say absently into the radio. "The domestic disturbance at 5150 Stripe has escalated into a 187. Perpetrator is on the loose; assume they are armed, dangerous, and un-collared, over."

Lifting my light just slightly upwards, I see a figure hunched on the other side of the scene. Down on his hands and knees is a coyote in a trench coat and suit. His hands are soaked with her blood, as is the front of that tan overcoat. Despite the darkness and shadows cast by my flashlight, I can see that his appearance is one of shock. He doesn't see me enter, doesn't see the light, and doesn't seem to see anything.

I pull my tranquilizer gun and aim it at him just over my flashlight. Approaching quickly and quiet, I train it on him center mass. The radio screeches at my hip, voices fighting over each other to report their statuses, to report they're closing it, or just to get in on the feeding frenzy. And it is this that the coyote hears. Looking up, he makes eye contact with me.

"You! Yes, you! Don't move!" I yell at him. "You're under arrest!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the adventure truly begins. The investigation commences and Jane, seeing her chance to finally advance to a detective, wants to look into to the murder and investigate instead of using the coyote they've found at the crime scene as a convenient fall guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another fine chapter. Here we get to see what it's like being the lone female beat officer in a very male-dominated environment, as well as a predator being surrounded by prey animals with a chip on their shoulder. I know interest is starting to wane for my series, but, I do want to upload a few more chapters. It's hard when I don't know if what I'm doing is entertaining to you all, so feedback is always appreciated. The next couple are very interesting as we approach the end of our first act. Don't miss the exciting events that are soon to occur! As always, if you enjoy this, go own down to the original fan-comic and give that a view. While I'm not related to them, I think you'll find that comic to be twice as awesome, which is why I began to write this story in the first place. Thanks for stopping by, and enjoy!
> 
> Premise: The year is late 197-something. Or maybe very early 198-something. It has been roughly 15 years, or maybe closer to 20, since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 2:

“Jesus, what happened here?" The captain asks as we enter the room.

It's been just under an hour since I called in the murder and already this apartment is swarming with police of every shape, color, size, and rank. Sheep and rams are the most common, many working in evidence, forensics, and other behind-the-scenes roles. Now they walk everywhere, covered in full-body suits marking up, roping off, and photographing everything they can.

The captain walks with me, as the first responding officer and as the only animal who witnessed the suspect paws-deep in the blood of the victim. This is the first time he's ever really paid me any individual attention, even since I was assigned to his precinct. Usually high-administration like him stay in his office. I suppose with a crime like this, even he has to make an appearance.

The coyote we found in the room is being detained in the adjacent bedroom, which, surprisingly, was left untouched by the destruction that happened here. The captain, a large elk, surveys the room just ahead of me with his arms clenched behind his back. He's both concerned and intrigued by the events of tonight, beyond that aroused by the usual urban murder.

We skirt towards the rope separating the rest of the room from what's left of the body. The lead forensics investigator notices his commander, stands up from the opposite side of the area and gives us a curt, professional wave. He takes a few steps towards us with his clipboard in his hand glancing over it as we approach, being careful to skirt anything marked off.

“So what can you tell me, since you've had control of the scene for over an hour now," the captain asks.

“Her name was Savannah Summers," the investigator says through the heavy, plastic bio-suit. “Twenty-eight years old, in near perfect health, she seemed to live a very healthy lifestyle."

“That's all well and good," says Whitebuck, “but can you tell us happened here."

“Oh, yes, right," the investigator continues. “Well, for all intents and purposes, she was torn to pieces. Somebody extremely large and powerful, or off their rocker enough to lose all contact with the outside world, must have done this. Most likely both. She had both her chest and stomach ripped open by sharp claws and teeth, most likely a very large canine or feline. The perpetrator continued to rip and tear at her extremities after that, but, it is highly like that she died beforehand. Finally, something must have spooked him and he tore up the room before smashing open the front door and making out onto the adjacent roof."

“Jesus Capybara above us," is all the captain can muster after that description.

While I concur with him, the investigator doesn't respond, instead charting a few things down onto his clipboard. It's likely this is just a Friday night to him. He then clicks his pen a few times and resumes his work, disinterested. The captain moves on as well, moseying through the apartment while fully taking in the damage. It's all unreal, even to him, I suppose. While this may happen in other parts of the city, it has never occurred on his watch.

He runs a hand across one of the walls where five sharp claws have torn open the wallpaper, creating floral valleys deep and wide. A group of bio-suited animals pushes by us and we pause in front of a door leading into a bedroom. It's one of the few untouched rooms in this studio-style apartment. Inside are three people: a detective, a psychologist, and our suspect. The captain sneers inside at the coyote, who has yet to even reveal his name.

He's still being held on site. While against technical protocol, this is surprisingly common for a number of reasons. The first of which is to pressure them with the results of their crime so close to them. The second is to lay a foundation of offers and counteroffers in case the decision is made to rough-ride them back to the precinct. The third, which is especially important in a situation such as this, is to keep them out of the sights of the press who linger just outside. The last is to, well, keep them away from their lawyer.

The captain gives him a cursory glance and turns towards me asking, “So who is our suspect? What do we know about him, other than the fact that he was the only person found at the scene?"

I look around his blue-coated chest to the scene inside. The coyote is sitting on a full-size bed, his hands resting in his lap in cuffs. The detective is hovering over him, barking something that sounds like a mixture of orders and demands, which the coyote seems unfazed by. The psychologist is sitting in a chair just inside the door, not saying much of anything. Unlike the investigator, she seems more interested in her notes.

“To be honest, sir, not much," I reply. “He hasn't responded to any of the detective's questions, has volunteered no information, and the psychologist can't seem to get a read on him. At least with the time allotted to her and his lack of cooperation."

It would be difficult for me, too, if he wasn't threatened with the electric chair from the word 'go'. And that, most definitely, is what that detective did upon arriving.

“It doesn't matter," the captain replies. “He was found at the crime scene, he's covered in the victim's blood, and most importantly, he's a predator. Case closed."

Whitebuck turns and begins to stride away. I continue to peer inside the room and watch the detective, a thick-necked beaver, reach his limit of bashing his head on the stone wall constructed before him and making no progress. He pounds the ground a few times with his feet, then his tail, and pushes by me angrily, cursing under his breath. The psychologist rises gently on her squirrel feet and follows.

“What about the door?" I ask while looking into the room.

“Hmm? What about it?" The captain replies, glancing over his shoulder while only a few steps from me.

“The door," I continue, “the one leading into this apartment. It doesn't add up. It's been ripped down, all but destroyed. Even the forensic expert seems to agree that somebody the coyote's size couldn't have done it. Surely that casts at least some doubt."

“Miss Brooks, I appreciate your concern for our predator suspect, but, this is an open and shut case," the captain replies with an almost, but not quite, condescending attitude. “We have enough evidence to put him away forever, assuming the prosecution doesn't push for the death penalty or drop the ball completely. It's our job to prove to our city that we are keeping them safe."

“By bringing in somebody immediately, even if it's the wrong guy?" I prod.

The captain smiles and sighs through his nostrils. He takes a few steps forward and places a firm hand on my shoulder, which usually I would find endearing. At this moment, I only find it condescending.

“Listen, Officer, I understand you've been gunning for detective since day one. Word climbs swiftly through the grapevine these days. Your test scores are phenomenal, your physical prowess is, well, above average," he says, causing me to smile. “The commander, and indeed the commissioner, are interested in getting cases like these through the court system, and more importantly making them stick, as quickly and as quietly as possible. They, of course, look favorably on those that help them. It's in the interest of the entire city of Zootopia. We don't wish to alarm the citizenry that a maniac murderer may be on the loose."

He takes his hand from my shoulder and turns away. He just presented me with the opportunity to get promoted if this goes smoothly. I smile at the thought, being made a detective. The golden shield and personal patrol car, not to mention the respect and valued work that comes along with the position, dance through my head. If this goes away.

But something hits me, churning in my stomach and biting at my neck. I turn and look into the room where the coyote sits, staring blankly at the floor. Then I look around the room at what has occurred here. Even I can't do the mental gymnastics necessary to connect this person to this crime. What evidence is here is convenient at best. A good defense would tear that apart. Would he get a good defense?

And, besides, what's the point of being a detective if I come to a conclusion without even doing what my title demands. To go for the simplest solution, even without all of the pieces, it seems immoral. I sigh as those images disappear from my noggin with a thousand 'pops'. I step forward and take the captain's arm before he can get too far. He turns around, looking at me surprised, but not annoyed.

“Captain, if I may," I begin. “I want to make sure we aren't rushing to a conclusion for expediency. We're the police after all, and if the average person doesn't have the confidence of the animals in blue that patrol their neighborhoods, then what do they have?"

“What are you asking for, Officer Brooks?" The captain frankly arrives at the point after a sigh.

“Give me fifteen minutes to talk to him. I understand your superior's desires to conclude a case like this post haste, but, we shouldn't do it while throwing an animal we know to be innocent behind bars. We're better than that," I explain.

“Officer, remember that, despite his size, he is still a predator. How do you know he didn't go mad and do this? For all we know, this is a cheap, conniving act on his part. For God's sake, he's a coyote. Trickery like this is their ancestral heritage. You do realize that, correct?" The captain inquires less kindly than before.

“I realize that, sir, and I don't know what he's doing," I reply. “But what I know, sir, is that sometimes being a good police officer means taking risks. And there is no harm running some more questions by him before taking him away. He can't escape, the collar would kill him. I'm just saying that my intuition makes me think we're missing some pieces here. Maybe I wouldn't be the only one."

The captain frowns hard at me, at the insinuation, something I've seen him do many times, though never in the presence of his equals or superiors. But his brow softens after a moment or two and he gruffly nods before turning away. I smile in return, thankful to have won the argument, though fearing what I've actually 'won'. If I gamble this right, I'll get rewarded. If I find out he did this, I'll pull the lever at the execution myself.

I wait as a couple of techs pass me by, and then enter the doorway into the room where the suspect sits. Knowing that I can't close the door fully, I leave it slightly ajar behind me, hoping to block out some of the noise from outside. The coyote doesn't acknowledge my presence, if he notices me at all. I stand across the small room from him and try to force a smile.

“Hi, my name is Officer, err, Jane Brooks," I announce semi-cheerily, at least as much as I can muster.

It's hard to keep a cheery disposition after what I've seen tonight. And that's what I'll tell anybody if they ask. But the truth is, I've never stood this close to a predator that was my size or bigger before in my line of work, especially one suspected of murder. The worst I've ever dealt with at work was a weasel, who I easily towered over. So my nerves are a bit on end, my mind instinctively leaping to the weapons at my belt. But I try to fight it, just for now.

Although he doesn't respond, I can tell he at least knows I'm here. His ears stand tall atop of his head, like tuft-topped mountains. His fur, mostly white, but with grays and browns strewn about, makes me think of the great outdoors as well. That is, what parts of them aren't flecked or completely covered with blood.

He's wearing a tan overcoat straight out of a pulp fiction. It obviously took the brunt of the staining and which hangs above a well-worn blue suit and striking red tie. It only helps to accentuate the big, black collar that chokes into his neck. While it looks uncomfortable, I know it might be the biggest thing standing between him and my life. But I try not to focus on that.

“May I sit down?" I ask him.

To this I at least get some sort of confirmation. His eyes make contact with mine and then return to staring at the floor. I take this as a 'sure' and sit down on an armless chair just inside the door. Leaning forward, I clasp my hands together and try to understand the person sitting across from me. I've done a lot of arrests, bookings, and tickets, but I've never gotten the chance to do an interrogation and this is the closest I think I'll get for quite some time.

I make the judgement that going the direct route wouldn't suffice. It sure didn't work for that detective. Maybe a more gentle approach would get me somewhere. Just keep up the tone I've had before and maybe he'll soften up.

“Would it be ok if I asked you what your name is?" I inquire of him, still gently, hoping to coax him out of his castle.

I receive more than a quick glance this time. His eyes, bright and ice blue, float up to me and stay there blinking for a moment or so. After a few silent moments, he swallow hard and looks away. My smile disappears when I think he's disappeared again, behind that wall of his. Glancing down to my vest, I pull out a notepad and flip it open to the first page, completely blank.

I actually bought a lot of supplies myself when I graduated from police academy. Most of it didn't get used, though I wouldn't know it at the time. My folks bought some of it for me as either a gift, or a 'good luck' message, depending on who you ask. Turning my eyes back up, the coyote still hasn't replied and doesn't seem to want to.

“Hey, I'm not going to hurt you," I say to him, gently. “I don't know what that Detective Ashe said, but I'm not with him. I'm not going to threaten you, I don't believe in that. I'm trying to be better than that."

The coyote doesn't respond to me, still. He just sits, the metal chain between his cuffs swinging between his arms. I look away, deflated, tucking my notepad and pen away.

“Jackie," he then suddenly says, barely above a whisper. “Jackie Quartz."

I look up in almost alarm, my tail standing on end. I'm so surprised that I don't even think to write any of it down. I just scoot forward on my seat and try to keep my cool.

“Hi, Jackie," I say to him, trying to smile once more. “Can you tell me what happened here?"

His mouth opens, but then quickly shuts again. Maybe I've asked the wrong question.

“Ok, ok, then. How about I ask why you're here at all?" I ask, rephrasing myself. “Could you describe who you saw, if you saw anyone at all?"

He must find that question a little more agreeable, as he turns his entire head towards me, but he doesn't reply. Those eyes, like cut sapphire, meet mine and begin to look over me. It's as if he's silently judging me, or maybe sizing me up. With that thought, I can't seem to hold my regained smile and I immediately lose it, searching for a new question if he doesn't answer that one.

“Well, uhm, how about—"

“I know—I knew her," he says quietly.

“You did?" I reply incredulously.

He gives a curt nod and then looks away. His eyes seem to scan the room, as if never having seen the inside before. I follow his gaze about, looking at the staples of what I would consider the average middle-class apartment. Though, the fact it's owned by a single lady makes that a little different. It's plainly obvious, despite the off-white painted walls and red curtains.

The walls are covered with posters, most seem new, as if she just moved in. Amongst the singers, Gazelle is a popular one, that big popstar that comes into the city a lot when she isn't abroad. If it isn't her, it's her tiger dancers, or other male models. The tigers stand out, though, as most of the models are prey species. Horses, bulls, rhinos seem very popular. I've always found the tigers to be, well, repulsive at worst, off-putting at best.

She gets away with a lot of stuff just because she's a popstar, because she has money. But it's started making more prey species turn predo, or at least that's what my father says. I've only met a few people with any inclinations that way, none who are actually giving in to their desires. I suppose if they were to date any preds, it would be a tiger. Because that's just what you do. Not that it's illegal or anything. At least, not anymore.

Clothes are strewn about the place, though it looks like it was done by the victim and not during her untimely demise. Wide-necked shirts, cut-off and ripped jeans, black boots and hoof covers seem to make up the bulk of what's about, thrown on her bed, or hanging from the dresser. More Gazelle influence, I suspect. Beyond that, nice shirts, slacks, and shoes, most likely for work, hang neatly in an open closet.

“She doesn't keep his picture out anymore," Quartz says.

My eyes wander back to him, but he seems distracted. He looks to the nightstand beside the head of her bed. Reaching over, he goes to grab at the drawer, but without a second thought, I'm on my feet to stop him. As if forgetting what I had said before.

“Hey, hey, keep your hands still!" I bark at him. “What are you doing?"

He looks back to me with a slightly hurt expression, though one that is unsurprised. His eyes move down to my hip. I realize my hand rests on the unclipped holster of my tranquilizer gun, which is displayed proudly at my hip. Although I'm quietly wondering what I'm doing myself, my lips tighten with resolve and when he meets my eyes again. Then his hands relax. When I see he wasn't trying to do anything, I relax myself.

I take a few steps forward, glancing over my shoulder to see if anybody has heard me yell, worried I've blown my chance. When the door doesn't bust open, I assume no one has and I'm still ok. The coyote doesn't move when I cross in front of him, though he doesn't seem glad about my words, to go to the nightstand. Pulling open the small drawer, I see a picture frame inside. When I lift it from the drawer's shadowy depth, dumping half-full makeup bottles and nail polish off, I flip it over to reveal a happy couple.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. It's just training, that's all," I say to him softly, turning it towards him. “Please, who are they?"

I'm not exactly sure he 'forgives' me. But the glance he gives me doesn't seem angry.

“Yeah, see? They always have three photos in their house: the bedroom, the living room, the front room. And they all go away when they don't love you no more," Quartz says a little louder than before. “His name is Bastion, he works as an adjuster at Blue Claws Blue Shield uptown."

Bastion is an Oryx, and the picture shows them relatively happy. They're in some park or maybe outside the city at a public forest. They're embracing as he takes the picture with the camera and they both appear genuinely in love with one another. I put the picture up onto the nightstand and close the drawer before stepping back from Quartz.

“She doesn't like to see his face when he brings him over," he says.

“Bring who over?" I ask him.

“Who do you think did this? The new boy toy, of course," Quartz says.

“She was cheating on her husband?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder towards the door.

“Boyfriend," Quartz says with a sigh. “Bastion was going to propose to her this weekend. Even though they aren't, well, the same species. He said it didn't matter to him. I guess she thought the same thing and wanted to move on to something a little spicier; maybe something more dangerous?"

As I look at the picture on the nightstand, a scene plays in my head. She has this new male over, they're having a good time. Then, maybe she says something wrong, or he does, and they argue. The argument gets too heated and he swings. Maybe she hits back, maybe he just spirals down into baser instinct and hits harder. Then harder. Then the claws come out, followed by the teeth.

And before you know it, she's dead. Well, deader than dead, she's mutilated, pulled apart at the seams, thrown over the room. I swallow hard and gasp for breath, stumbling back away from the coyote, the set of teeth and claws, sitting on the bed. Without realizing it, I bump into the wall and gasp loudly. Quartz just furrows his brow and looks away.

“You never answered me, why are you here at all?" I demand of him.

He quickly reaches up and into his coat pocket, causing my hand to jump to my gun, though I don't pull it. A moment later, he reveals a business card and presents it to me. I let free my weapon hastily, hoping to not let him see me do that, not again, and take a tentative step or two forward to retrieve it from his claws. Bringing it into the light shining from the ceiling and table lamps, I read: “J. Quartz, Private Investigation. Hire the craftiest, the calmest, the most qualified PI you can find: hire a coyote."

There's even a little coyote profile that's standing in a desert scene in a very trendy, modern line style.

“You're a private eye?" I say and look up to him.

He nods and rests the end of his muzzle in his paws, his elbows on his legs.

“Why didn't you tell the detective?" I say, almost angrily.

“Wouldn't have done anything to help me," he replies cryptically, closing his eyes and looking away. “Probably would've earned me a kick."

“No, that wouldn't have happened," I say, before I'm able to catch myself. “Well, maybe with Ashe . . . Ok, you're a PI and you're here. So you were following her? What did you see? What do you know?"

He looks back to me and reveals these bright, striking blue eyes once more before saying, “Everything."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the fateful deal is struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the third chapter. The response has been kind of mediocre, but, for those of you who do enjoy this, here's another chapter to give you a taste! Now we're getting into the meat of the story, where the deal is struck. We're getting to see what it's like in this city, we see what it's like to be a citizen of it. Whether you're a cop, a politician, prey, predator, young, old, and anything in-between. And for many, all is not well. Send some love over to the original comic, they would love to get some more fans, some more support! And, hey, I haven't gotten any demands to stop, so I suppose things are ok so far! The link is below, as always! Thanks for coming, and I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 3:

"He wants what?!" The captain bellows down at me.

I haven't felt this small in a very long time. The captain is already that much larger than I am, but when he isn't happy, he grows ten times his own size out of pure vitriol and anger. A lot of the investigatory boys have already packed their things and left. The only people who are left are the officers still going door-to-door to get input from neighbors, and the detectives hanging about.

"He wants a deal, sir," I reply to him sheepishly.

"Of course he wants a deal, don't they always?" Detective Ashe protests angrily.

The detective from before has returned after getting wind that his case's main suspect opened up to someone else. To describe him as furious would be an understatement. He's a beaver, a very large one in both girth and strength, and a veteran at the police force. The only thing larger than him, outside the larger species in blue, including myself as a white tail deer, is his distaste for me.

Right now he sucks on a cigarette and leans against the door barring off the impromptu interrogation room which holds our suspect. When he received the news, he barged back in to tighten the clamps on Quartz, who suddenly could only repeat the word 'lawyer' over and over again. For my own safety, I didn't stop him. Quartz seemed to find tormenting the detective to be enjoyable, and I didn't want to spoil his fun.

"I understand that part, Officer Brooks, but what I don't understand is how he thinks he can determine he's in any position to negotiate with the ZPD!" The captain booms. "We have enough evidence to fry him, or at least put him behind bars for the rest of his miserable life! What does he have that could possibly make a difference here?"

"He isn't in any position, godamnit, he's a fucking chomper!" Ashe booms. "We shouldn't trust a word coming out between those canine's canines."

"Evidence and proof absolving him, and indicating the real murderer," I say, a little more confident than before, trying to wholly ignore Ashe.

"What fucking evidence?" Ashe cries, flicking his cigarette.

"Indeed. What evidence?" Whitebuck demands ardently, though more calmly than his subordinate. "Even if he's an eyewitness, the DA's office will pick him apart! And, no doubt, the info coming back from forensics will damn him. Unless he has cold, hard, tangible, unalterable evidence, his hide is tanned."

Ashe goes to interject, but I don't give him the chance to.

"How about a roll of film?" I calmly ask, which shuts Ashe up.

The fire in the captain's eyes begins to dull. His fists unclench from his side and he leans back, away from looming over me like a toppling building. As his brow unfurrows, he runs a hand through the fur on top of his head. He then exhales a deep, cleansing sigh and turns away from me. Apparently that is good enough to at least consider the proposal.

Ashe seems to concur, shoving that thick Bucky Strike back into his mouth. He sucks on it until it's as red as the pits of hell. Then he blows smoke out through his nostrils and crosses his arm in what can only be described as his 'screw you' stance. The silence of the interlude of the eruptions of two volcanoes is measurable.

"A roll of film?" The captain inquires.

"Yes, sir," I explain, "he was tailing the victim for her boyfriend as a licensed private investigator. That job included taking photographic evidence which means he took a roll of film of the events leading up the murder. It includes clear shots of the murderer himself."

The captain's eyes widen and what anger he has left dissipates. Ashe seems stunned into silence, either by surprise or disbelief. I highly suspect it's the latter. Wheels turn behind the captain's eyes and he turns away from me.

"Assuming he isn't lying," the captain begins, "and it reveals the real, or second, murderer - we must keep our possibilities open - that leaves me in a precarious situation."

"Yeah, no shit," Ashe interjects. "The media will fry us. If we're lucky, that's it. But we could avoid it all, send the coyote downtown. Let them decide if they wanna send him to the Zoo or somewhere upstate."

Then the both of them are quiet. Ashe seems to be cooking with his lid on, threatening to boil over. The captain, though, seems contemplative, sober, and very collected. Finally, he loudly sighs.

"There are four news crews outside right now, if you haven't noticed," The captain informs me, "not to mention the smaller rags. When I leave this building, I'm going to have to tell them something. If I don't and they let their imaginations run wild, at 6 o'clock tomorrow morning when this news breaks, I may be cleaning out my desk. If I tell them we don't have anyone in custody and that doesn't change, when the news breaks at 6 o'clock tomorrow morning, I may be cleaning out my desk. If I tell them we do, and we don't by 6 o'clock tomorrow morning, I will be cleaning out my desk. Understand my position."

"I do sir," I reply. "But if we arrest him, we are knowingly arresting the wrong person."

"If it turns out to be true, and the defense proves it. But, that's a horrible risk for me to take, Officer Brooks, the word of a private investigator backed up by a beat cop," the captain says plainly, walking towards the window at the front of the apartment. "With the mayoral election coming up, and possibly the appointment of a new commissioner, it will be high time to reorganize the administration in the ZPD. I'm hoping I don't remain a captain for much longer. If Bellwether loses, it would be nice to receive a promotion and not a pink slip."

"He's a coyote, Brooks, a predator. Even if we are arresting him for a false crime, we'd only be arresting him for something we don't know about, or preventing something he'll do in the future," Ashe asserts, obviously frustrated with the situation.

"That may be, Ashe, but we have to try," I insist to Ashe, who brushes me off. "And, sir, please, this is a risk worth taking. If you do nothing, and someone else gets murdered, what then?"

"And what would you have me do, Officer?" The captain asks as he peers through the parted blinds. "No detective in my precinct would dare work with a predator, especially one like him. No sergeant or lieutenant would either. If we let him out, we could just be giving him a head start. I don't want to divert any resources chasing down a hostile informant, or a possible suspect."

"No shit," Ashe asserts miserably. "By letting one his kind into our folds, you're begging for every intricate detail of how our police system works to make its way into the wild, toothy, and claw-filled world-at-large. What next, Jane Doe, letting a fox into the precinct? Give me a fucking break!"

Ashe sucks his cigarette dry and then tosses the butt on the ground. His fingers crawl to procure a new one, but hold off when I give him an almost hate-filled glare. It wouldn't surprise me if the captain hears Ashe's protest as most likely representing the bulk of his officers. But, yet, he doesn't respond positively to that argument. Not even casually.

Instead, he closes the blinds and steps away from the window. He wipes his head again and pulls his peaked cap from under his cocked arm. After blowing the dust and debris out of it, he replaces it onto his head and turns towards me. The look in his eyes is wanting at best, distrustful at worst. I can almost see the wheels turning behind them, trying to figure out what I'll say next. I'm sure he knows.

"I will, sir," I say confidently, giving Ashe the stink-eye.

His lips tighten and then loosen after a moment, no doubt confirming that he already knew the next words out of mine. After giving Ashe a cursory glance to see the red spreading over his fur, he turns away. He looks down at where Savannah's body once laid, the blood still mostly soaked into old, white carpeting. I turn to follow as he steps forward. A pair of cops still ring the room, a bull and a hare, most likely intrigued by the developments.

"Cap, you can't be buying this shit," Ashe pleads, his anger disappeared, replaced by exasperation and unease. "He's a good half-foot on her, not to mention the weight. Taking into account her training, the moment they're outside of this building, he's gone like a fart in the wind and she's useless, dead weight. And knowing his kind, we'll never find him again. If we're lucky, we'd pin him after the next murder. At least I hope it's only after the next one."

"You can handcuff him to me," I continue to suggest, countering Ashe's critique. "Even if he wanted to run, he couldn't. He wouldn't ever leave my sight. All we would need to do is retrieve the camera, get the roll developed, identify the perp, and make an arrest. It could be done in a matter of hours. You could be a hero."

"Come on, captain, give me an hour with him, out of sight, and I'll shake something loose from him," Ashe counter-offers. "Whether it's the confession that he's the real murderer; or, if his phantom camera turns out to be real, that camera's hiding place. I don't care which! You can't seriously be considering the insane, fever-dream suggestion from a yearling woman, can you? She's hardly a real cop!"

The captain seems neither interested nor disinterested in either of our proposals. He simply looks to the vaguely body-shaped blood splatter on the ground. His brow furrows and he leans forward with a deep sigh. To be honest, I'm surprised he's even interested in this. My previous experiences speaking with him have been, well, strained at best. It's not that he doesn't trust me, I just don't think he expects anything I do to succeed.

Captain Whitebuck is a good man, generally. He's as ambitious as every other captain in the ZPD, always maneuvering his political pieces to rise up the ranks. His sights are aimed on commissioner and nothing less. Well, maybe being mayor would suffice. I think it's why he dislikes me. Taking on a female beat cop, especially one that wants to be a detective, is dangerous, politically and professionally. But, despite that ambition, he has never shown the kind of malice and bigotry I've seen in others at this job.

Someone like Ashe. Ashe takes a large step forward, stumbling with the lighter in his hand, as if conjuring up something to say, anything. When it looks like he finally pulls something up from the depths of his empty head, I slide in front of him to keep his mouth shut.

"Sir, I understand your position," I quickly say. "You could be risking your job. But arresting Mr. Quartz now and calling it a day means risking the lives of someone in the future, and possibly media backlash after the real perpetrator strikes again, assuming he will. It's a risk, but, it's our job as police officers to protect the public, not ourselves. If we throw this predator behind bars, we're just letting the real culprit free reign of the city to murder again, and--and--and if this doesn't work out, I'll work the boat for the rest of my career."

Ashe seems stunned. I'm not even sure he knew that I knew about the marine detail. How could I not? It's the most dreaded detail in the entire ZPD. Cruising the harbor where the shipping barges and cruise ships come in, maybe even covering the rivers up in the Rainforest District. It's miserable. But, more importantly, what it means is that I'm out of Captain Whitebuck's precinct, forever. He seems to find this attractive.

"Hmm," the captain says after a second. "And what, pray tell, do you get if this little gamble pays off for you?"

"I want to be immediately made a detective," I tell him plainly, upping the ante.

The captain 'hums' once more and seems to smile. Ashe is furious, now glaring miserably at the both of us, though he doesn't say anything. While I doubt he's a religious man, considering he drinks like a fish, deep down I know he's praying that the captain won't buy this. That this deal I've offered him isn't good enough. I won't lie, my heart is beating through my vest like a drum.

"This is what I'm going to say, Officer," the captain says and turns to me with a vague smile on his muzzle. "I'm going to go downstairs, calmly, with the remainder of the force occupying this building in tow. That includes you, Detective Sergeant Ashe. We will lock up this apartment, cordon it off for the time being; leave it in case something new develops and we need to come back here. Once that is done, you will be handcuffed to Mr. Quartz."

"Captain, Jesus Capybara!" Ashe yells, exasperated.

The captain lifts a hand, clenched tightly into a fist. It seems he has finally come to a decision, one which calms my fluttering heart. When Ashe takes a step back, grumbling under his breath, the captain returns his arm to the small of his back whence it came.

He stoically continues, "You have eight hours, roughly, to fulfill your bargain with your predator. Find this camera, phantom or not. Find the real perp and deliver him to the precinct in cuffs before sunrise. Backup will be posted at the precinct at a moment's notice, as I won't send you into the line of fire without any protection. But, understand me, if you turn up empty-handed, that coyote of yours goes to Rams Island and maybe the chair. And you will ride the boat until your pension matures."

"Captain, you can't be serious," Ashe quietly states, defeated.

The detective takes a step forward with both of his arms stretched before him as if pleading. Whitebuck turns to face him and gives a sigh, as if resigned to his decision. Ashe takes this as the end of this argument, that there is no way forward from his position. He finally shoves that next Bucky into his mouth and lights it, while sucking on it with such force as to threaten to ash it in one go.

"Then I won't take any responsibility for the outcome, then," he says with renewed anger. "I'm turning over my case files to Lieutenant Longenecker outside. If you really want to commit to this folly, you can collect them from him! And you there, Doe, you watch yourself. From him, and from us. Dig?"

With that, he turns and storms off towards the door, the long of his coat trailing behind him while his tail threatens to tear up the rug like the drag bar on a funny car. When he's gone, the tension in the room is relieved and I look back to the captain. He has just watched, while not his best, but a good investigator leave. I wonder if he thinks he's just made an enemy. I wonder if I've made a friend.

I don't ask. I'm not sure if I would even have the right to. But, to be honest, I'm happy either way. Well, maybe not with the fact that I'm going to be handcuffed to a predator for possibly eight hours, but with the fact that I'm getting the opportunity to prove myself. Finally. I'm hoping by morning, I'll be a detective. Maybe soon I'll be a detective sergeant.

After about fifteen minutes, it's quite obvious the captain is very serious about honoring his bargain. Quartz is lead out of his 'cell' without being told of the situation. The room is then sealed off to both the public and anyone else that would be interested in getting back in. As the officers are ordered downstairs, the captain turns to the both of us and presents me with the file procured from the giraffe lieutenant.

As I open it up, he releases one of Quartz's handcuffs, causing him to brighten like a thousand watt light. It bursts a moment later when Whitebuck slams the now-free cuff onto my right arm. The captain nods, pinching the brim of his hat and wordlessly turns to leave. The coyote watches him go while grasping for the words to protest.

"What just happened?" He finally asks as the captain turns the corner.

"You got what you wanted," I tell him. "Now you have roughly eight hours to fulfill your promise and you walk free. Screw it up, and you spend the rest of your days at the Zoo and I hit the water. I'd suggest you get moving."

"While I'm handcuffed to you?" He says to me loudly. "Oh, Jesus."

I give him a curt smile and close the relatively thin file I've been presented with. Quartz looks to me in disbelief. I think he saw himself talking his way out of this bind, but I don't think he saw it going like this. No, I'm pretty sure he thought he'd squeeze between the cracks. But his face turns towards exasperation when he lifts up his arm and the handcuffs rattle.

"Well," I say as he lets his arm drop, "if you're quite done, I think we should get going. Tick tock, Mr. Quartz."

Tick tock, Jane.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Jane and her new 'partner' look for the 'phantom' camera. Captain Whitebuck also gives his small press conference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm starting to get a little more of a response, which is definitely nice. For those of you who are enjoying the story so far, I'm going to put up another chapter. While this one is a little less intense than some others in the past and to come, this chapter shows the news that resides in such a populous city, and maybe, by extension, what the entirety of the city feels in times like these. But, hey, this is just my interpretation of a story that has gotten so popular in the fandom. Go on over to the link below, to the original Zistopia webcomic, to see the world I'm writing in. I'm not related to them whatsoever, but I couldn't stop myself from expanding the story in some way! I hope they think it's ok! I'm sure they would appreciate the views and the support! I also love whatever encouragement you can give me here if you guys are liking it so far. Thanks for stopping by, and enjoy another chapter below! If you want more, there's more to come, always.
> 
> Premise: The year is late 197-something. Or maybe very early 198-something. It has been roughly 15 years, or maybe closer to 20, since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 4:

Voices begin to sing out and camera bulbs snap and crack as the remaining bulk of police officers exits the building. The captain raises his hands above his head to gain their attentions, his antler-less silhouette towering above many of his inferiors. News crews from every channel across the city, not to mention papers and radio stations, push towards the front to get the best photos, the best audio, and the best chance at getting their questions answered.

The coyote covers up the chains that keep us together at my right hand and his left. At first I wondered why he was taking his overcoat off, but the reason is sensible enough. Of the numerous animals who are paid to notice every small detail, this was likely a good idea to keep any questions from being raised. Plus, I'm not sure I want to walk through a crowd of newsmen chained to a predator.

Off to the right of the bottom of the stoop is a makeshift podium, towards which the captain wades through the crowd of bodies. It is to the other side of the building that we walk, trying our best to not be noticed. With the distraction my superior is providing, it isn't a difficult task. But pushing by the crush of bodies in front of us is.

"Where is the camera?" I ask, keeping my eye on the captain, hoping to hear some of his statement.

"It's down below the fire escape," Quartz replies, leaning forward to minimize the chance of others hearing.

"Why is it down there?" I question him. "Shouldn't you keep that on you at all times?"

"I wasn't about to let some of the most valuable equipment I own go into a scene like that," he replies. "Look, the thing's fine, it's safe. I hope."

I roll my eyes but keep quiet. Just then cameras begin to crackle and voices begin to fight over one another, the sound of numerous on-location reporters reading their lead-in. After clearing the edge of the crowd, I slow down and look back over my shoulder. The captain has just made the podium and is waving his hands for calm and quiet.

"Thank you," he says loudly. "While a more formal statement shall come out of the main precinct at One ZPD Drive tomorrow morning, I shall take a small number of questions now. Yes, you there."

"Hallie Maddox, ZTP News, channel six," A female voice asks from somewhere out of sight in the crowd. "My question is this: This is the sixth murder in as many weeks by so-called Mad Murderers. What is the ZPD doing to protect the vast amount of its citizenry, most of whom have no way to protect themselves from such savagery?"

"Thank you, Miss Maddox," the captain replies. "Here at the ZPD, we hold the safety and security of this city and those who cannot protect themselves in highest regard. We are doing everything we can to provide for it, and thus have increased our presence on the streets. And, city hall willing, we shall expand the amount of funding we receive and bring a new presence to the streets of Zootopia. Next question?"

"Officer Brooks?"

"J. Marks, Daily Prowl, what can you tell about this murderer? Is this all the actions of one predator gone mad? Or is this the corruption of those who live in the worst parts of our fine city?" Another, this time male, voice cries out.

"What happened here can be described as a tragedy. While it is true that over the past several weeks, murders of similar MOs have occurred throughout the city, there is no need for panic," the captain says with a shake of the head. "We are currently looking into the motives of our suspect, and it is likely to be attributed to a domestic dispute gone wrong."

Murmurs begin to spread, about a pred-and-prey couple. Couples like that aren't illegal per se, but they're highly taboo, and people have been fired, evicted, and shunned for less. While it isn't newsworthy in and of itself, that was a juicy bit of information that the captain should have thought twice about releasing. The look on his face, growing concern, echoes my sentiment.

Whitebuck then tries to regain control of the crowd, saying, "What I meant to say was--"

"Then you have a suspect in custody?" A voice suddenly cries out.

"We shall, well," the captain stumbles, caught off guard, "have a suspect in custody within the hour. We know who they are, we know where they live, and there is no escape for them. It is only a matter of time before they are off the streets and delivered safely into the hands of the rightful authorities. It is my aim--"

"The public has a right to know who this animal is! Who is the predator that has mutilated yet another prey victim? Why have no street prowlers been brought in?" Another voice screams out angrily.

"Who is the ZPD protecting? Zootopia's citizens or itself?" A third voice cries.

"That's enough questions," the captain says, waving his arms, obviously flustered, losing control entirely.

"We want the truth from the ZPD!" The same voice screams out. "You can't hide the animals gone savage forever!"

"We're done here, we're done here!" The captain yells, knowing a lost cause when he sees one, and steps away from the podium allowing a lieutenant to step up and take his place, most likely an administrative representative.

I feel a tug at my arm and turn to see the coyote. He's standing between two cars that block off the alleyway from the rest of the streets. Their lights flash, illuminating the darkness beyond with an eerie blue and red haze. The colors cover him as well, making his figure appear cartoonish, like a panel out of a comic book.

"Over here," he says.

I nod and begin to follow. The lieutenant, a rhino I've never seen before, begins to read off boiler plate answers to most of the reporter's questions. The more right-leaning reporters in the crowd have ruined it for the rest of them. And while I disagree with the attitude of their questions, I understand the content.

Most of these animals just want answers. And the wall of silence that many news outlets have received by the city over the last couple of months concerning similar murders has many riled up. I've heard calls for a recall on the mayor, a shakeup going all the way to the top. But that doesn't seem to be the feelings of the majority, just a few anti-pred groups. Well, as far as I can tell.

"Where's the camera?" I ask as soon as I slip through the cars, my tail almost getting caught on the hood ornament of the car.

The coyote slips the jacket up and over his shoulders once more, now that we're clearly out of sight of the crowd on the other side of the barricade. He gives the top of his head a rub with his free hand and then looks forward. Blue and red color everything, alternating between the two every other moment.

"Down there," he replies and gives a point towards a line of silver trash cans beneath the fire escape.

"It's in the garbage?" I ask, surprised. "Why would you put it there?"

"Well, 'putting it there' is sort of a strong word," he replies and moseys forward. "The better phrase would be 'dropped it'."

"You dropped it in the garbage?" I ask, this time sarcastically.

The coyote doesn't really give a response, instead moving forward and pulling one of the cans towards him. I at least see him roll his eyes, so I know he heard me. He delves his free arm into the filth beyond. A few seconds later, he comes up empty handed and turns to another one.

"Well, what I saw up there wasn't pretty." he then says as he pulls another can towards himself "Most people wouldn't have kept their lunch let alone their stuff."

"Did you see her die?" I ask him.

"No, I didn't," he replies. "When I climbed up, the deed was already done. But seeing it, and then the madman standing over him was shocking to say the least. I stumbled from my vantage spot and the camera went down when I ran into the railing. I don't see pieces scattered across the alleyway, so it must have hit one of the open cans. I mean, what would you have done?"

His arm comes back up from that one without a thing either. The final can sits away from the fire escape, to the right. The lid isn't one it anymore. It sits on the ground, the one side bent very noticeably. Quartz must take this as a sign that it must rest within and begins to search. Well, the answer to that question is really easy.

"I wouldn't have dropped it is what I would have done," I tell him with a shrug. "Even in that situation, I wouldn't have dropped it. That's critical evidence, and the worst thing that can happen is it being lost. But it's understandable, you're not trained the same way police or military are."

"Training? Give me a break," he replies, shoulder-deep in that waste bin. "When you're sitting ten feet away from an animal having her belly ripped open by some guy gone mad, get back to me. I'm lucky I got the shots at all."

"Yeah, I suppose. I thought preds didn't mind the sight of blood," I say, annoyed but not angry, as he begins to stand upright once more.

"Right, because every sharp-toothed citizen of this city is just one tiny, crucial step away from regressing back into our baser selves. Or maybe it's because we're so desensitized to the sight of brutal murders. Maybe we are now, since it seems to happen so often in our neighborhoods," he loudly argues. "Here's the camera. Thank Jesus, it isn't broken."

I can almost hear my father talking, "It is a known fact that prey species are higher evolved than their carnivorous and omnivorous brethren. While predators grew their strength, speed, and brutal killing abilities, prey thought, read, wrote, and grew society. We came together to form this city, this country, but it is us that lead it into the future."

 

I sigh, maybe wonder a bit. Then I watch as Quartz turns the camera over in his hands a few times, surveying the damage. The lens that thrusts forward from the black body of the device is cracked and quickly discarded. So is the flash that has been bent into odd shapes, the bulb crushed inside. The moment of truth comes when he opens the backing to the device and turns it to show the film still inside, rolled up into the canister that holds it.

I snatch the camera from his hands before he's able to wrap the alligator leather strap around his neck. For my own information, I snap open the back again and look to the film canister. With a sigh of relief, I snap it shut again and then put the strap around my own neck. The camera hangs well below my breasts, swinging into my stomach.

"I'll hold onto this," I tell him before getting one more jab in. "It's safer, it won't get dropped or lost."

"Oh, yes, because I'd purposefully discard the one piece of evidence keeping me out of the Zoo to spite you or the ZPD," he sarcastically says.

He pulls out a packet of cigarettes and bums one from the soft packaging. They're Bucky Strikes, the same brand that Ashe smokes. That's sort of odd, I thought predators preferred Lion & Mongoose or maybe Clawports. Afterwards, he retrieves a small lighter from his pocket, that's round in shape. It lights when he squeezes it in his palm.

"Just because I'm a predator doesn't mean I'm trying to undermine you," he says and takes a puff.

"I didn't say you were," I inform him. "But this is important."

"And you don't trust me with it?" He asks.

"Not specifically, no," I reply, trying to keep calm. "But I'm trusting you enough to make this deal, aren't I?"

"You are because you have something to gain from it. But what about those people, who want to see someone like me strung up just because they want a sacrifice?" He asks, aiming to cut.

To that I make no response. He simply puffs on that cigarette and looks to me, clearly unhappier than I am to be handcuffed to me. I don't blame him, honestly, I'd be miserable, too. But that's the deal we made, even if it came with caveats that I didn't negotiate. The anger and hatred raised by both the rest of the cops on the force and the news crews would most likely worry me as well.

When I look back, Quartz seems satisfied by my silence, so I don't respond to the thought at all.

I sigh, "Ok, we have to get back to the precinct."

"Where's your car?" he asks calmly.

"I don't have one," I reply.

Which is the truth. I work on-hoof, I wasn't assigned to a squad car. In some of the outer precincts, it's common to still have foot patrols. The one that I've been assigned to is one of them.

"I don't either," he says. "I took a cab here, so nobody would notice a strange car on the block. And there isn't any way we're getting anywhere after dark that way."

"Why?" I ask him.

"I'm a predator, and it's after dark. Do the math," he says bluntly.

I'm a bit surprised by that response, I guess because it was something I never even considered. His whole body is bathed in the alternating blue and red from the car roof lights behind us. A pang of regret hits my stomach and I look away.

"Well, the Riverfront Station is only a block or two away, we'll just take the el-train back into Savannah Central," I say.

"What about the cops here?" He asks.

"You want to ride with them?" I reply.

It takes him only a moment to figure out why that's an issue. All political issues aside for my own higher ups, I'd like to avoid any confrontations with other officers, especially those with Ashe's more abrasive personality and worldviews. And having a predator handcuffed to me would definitely do that. So it looks like the el-train would be the best option.

Wordlessly, I turn and begin to lead him away from the scene towards the station. He doesn't fight me and follows quietly. His padded paws silently touch down onto the concrete while my hooves echo into the darkness. I'm wondering about the bet I placed and its worth, while I'm sure he's wondering about the deal he struck. Blue and red, everything is blue and red.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A view of the world in which our main characters live, as well as a look at the lives both of the leads must live on a daily basis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, I'm glad some of you are enjoying the story! While I can't really tell what everybody's thoughts are, at least I'm getting some views, so that must be something! We're finally getting into the meat and potatoes from here on out. In this chapter, we get to see a bit of the city life of non-Downtown Zootopia. We also get to see some of the behind-the-scenes of the police station our deer hero works at. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as well, I'm working on polishing up some more for the future and working on the second act. As always, if you enjoy this, go own down to the original fan-comic and give that a view. While I'm not related to them, I think you'll find that comic to be twice as awesome, which is why I began to write this story in the first place. Thanks for stopping by, and enjoy!
> 
> Premise: The year is late 197-something. Or maybe very early 198-something. It has been roughly 15 years, or maybe closer to 20, since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 5:

The station is all but dead when we get there, just a few blocks east of the apartment building. The docks and riverfront businesses are all but closed, so all of the evening traffic has dispersed. And it’s still much too early for any of the bar and gaming traffic to even consider starting up, so everything is quiet. Quartz didn’t raise a single word the entire time, opting to suck on that cigarette. The el-train that squeals to a stop before us is one of the older models.

Like most of the public facilities servicing old pred-only parts of the city, it’s falling apart. What was once a shining, chrome plated promise of the future flying through the city has degenerated into yet another sticker-covered, graffiti-clad reminder of the past. The inside can be described as more of the same: sticky, dirty, with Bugburga wrappers, cigarette butts, and beer bottles strewn about the floor.

At least the seat we sit in, as we have the choice of the entire car, isn’t ripped or covered in various, unknown fluids. I go to force the coyote into the window seat, but he insists on taking it, avoiding an argument. He sits quietly, watching the exterior roll by wordlessly. After a moment or so, the silence becomes unbearable.

“What will you tell the boyfriend?” I ask him offhandedly.

“Huh?” He replies, most likely deep in his own world.

“Bastion, the Oryx?”

“Oh, yeah, I don’t know yet. I was paid for this entire week in advance, so there isn’t a lot for me to collect. I might phone him once this is all done and tell him what I know, see if he wants to reward me on a ‘job well done’. Highly doubt it, though. Honestly, I was hoping the police would tell him first, considering he’s one of your kind and all.”

My jaw tightens at the insinuation, but, I calm down when I sort of realize he’s right. Most likely he’ll get the ‘boys in blue’ visit either tomorrow morning or sometime early in the afternoon if her parents don’t get it. I’m assuming earlier, considering how high visibility this is. It’s better to be told in person than find out your girlfriend is the latest in a string of vicious predator murders.

“How did you get roped into all of this?” I ask him, adding a moment later when he doesn’t answer immediately. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I told you,” he replies. “I’m a private investigator.”

“No, I meant, how did you get pulled into following Savannah?” I clarify.

“Bastion called me,” he explains while still watching the buildings fly by. “I have an ad in the back of most of the little locals around here. I’m sure he must have gotten it from there. Don’t know how, most of the places that carry it aren’t frequented by prey. Didn’t bother thinking about following him, since it was easier to follow her.”

“Do a lot of prey species call you?” I ask curiously, trying to be personable.

“More than you’d think,” he says with a bit of a chuckle. “The way I see it is thusly: you’re wronged and you don’t want to go to the cops for whatever reason. Or maybe you did and they don’t do a thing. Your old man’s been cheating, maybe your niece went missing, you need somebody to leave you alone, what do you do? You don’t hire Gary Goat or Larry Llama. They’ll screw this up. ‘They don’t have the strength or the resolve’, you say to yourself. ‘No, I want something scary, something that’ll get the job done. I know, I’ll hire some HT scum and they’ll do it for me.’”

“Scum?” I ask him.

“Mmhmm,” he replies. “For a nominal fee, of course, depending on my services and how needful and frightened the customer is.”

I’m quiet for some time, not really knowing what to say, but with some words bouncing around in my brain. The folder that the captain gave me crinkles in my vest, echoing in this metal-walled tube flying across the cityscape. I want to call him out for being a scab, or a tick sucking the blood out of his customers. But, then again, it’s their right, I suppose, to do with their money as they please. Especially if the proper authorities won’t help.

Finally, I say, “Do you think that’s what your customers see you as? The prey ones, I mean. Scum?”

He turns to look at me, the first time since before we boarded the train. His look is quizzical again, unbelieving.

“How long have you worked in pred-heavy area?” He asks.

“About a year, ever since I joined the force. I wanted to get close to the action, but it didn’t really work out well. Why?” I ask him, genuinely confused.

“And you don’t think animals like you see animals like me like they’re not even worth it? Not worth the education, the housing, hell, even the basic respect dull-toothed office workers get Downtown? Maybe that they don’t need a gun drawn on them?”

He did see. That makes me looks away quickly.

“No, no, of course not!” I insist. “They just see you as different, just a little more like a . . .”

I search my mind for the appropriate words, but nothing comes to me. A threat, an unknown, a variable they don’t understand come to my mind easily. But that isn’t right, and even I know that. A ticking time bomb. That’s the word my father would use, but I shouldn’t say it. That can’t be right, I don’t believe that. Do I? Quartz seems to know it and doesn’t press the point, most likely satisfied with my reaction, like before. Turning away, he puts his head back onto the cool window and blinks.

“But most of my business comes from other preds,” he continues without me asking. “Because, if the cops don’t care about you, who can you turn to? Not a lot of options on that front unless you wanna deal with one of the Families, so they come to animals like me; for a nominal fee, of course. You ever been to Happy Town proper? You know, down by the docks, out Fang Street way?”

I turn to him and see that he hasn’t looked back to me, but I can see his eyes reflected in the mirror. That name is very familiar, even though I haven’t lived in Downtown all that long. It’s part of my beat, if only the better parts of that neighborhood. They talked about it during training, about how the preds were shoved into a segregated portion of the city before, what, ’65? Although it’s not mandatory anymore, a lot of preds remained. I’ve been told it’s because they prefer the familiarity, but I’ve had my doubts.

“No,” I reply honestly.

“Didn’t think so.”

The train pulls into the station and the conductor’s voice comes over the radio to announce ‘Savanna Central’ over the intercom. It hardly sounds like that’s what he says, but, for locals, we simply know. I stand up and allow Quartz to get out in front of me before we exit. Then I lead him down the rusting metal staircase to the street level. The square is all but devoid of its usual traffic at this time of night, though you can hear the nightlife bump all about.

The Mudd Club flanks one side of the wide square filled with milling bodies, its pig-shaped sign glowing in the darkness, while the SheePGB sits on the other, hosting vastly different crowds. In the center, people stand about having a smoke and talking. Muscle cars rev and squeal down the boulevard somewhere just out of sight while motorcycles rumble in their spots along the sidewalk. When the doors open, music pours out in unintelligible, but inviting, waves.

Bodies push by us as we descend the stairs onto the pavement. I’ve heard suggestions to lower the el-train down to street level, to push for a more ‘walkable’ city, but I doubt that’ll ever to fruition. We’ll ring in the new century before that ever happens. Here the coyote doesn’t bother covering up our chains. Most of these animals wouldn’t care to see a pred in cuffs. In fact, they wouldn’t even be surprised.

We attract a lot of attention passing by some of the open clubs and bars. From the more anti-establishment ones we get a mixture of disdain for me and solidarity for their arrested brethren. From the more biker-oriented ones we get half nods of approval and half sneers, patriots and rebels. And, of course, from the club scenes we get questions of if we’re dating, if we want to try some Molly.

It’s only two blocks to the precinct, and what a hard two blocks that is. My hand was on my gun the entire time, though Quartz seemed rather at ease with himself, sucking down another Bucky from his dwindling pack. So much, in fact, that I’m wondering how many of those animals have hired services like his, or him specifically. Getting back into the shadow of the precinct building gives me a sense of comfort.

But I can’t say the same for Quartz, who tenses at the scene unfolding before us. As we cross the street into the streetlamp-light oasis around the front steps of the precinct, a squad car is being emptied on the curb. Two large officers, both of whom I can state I intensely dislike, are unloading a perp of their own. I pull on the cuffs in order to keep both the predator and the fact that we’re chained tighter close to the hip.

Quartz seems to sense this and tries to be an inconspicuous as possible. But a blood-covered pred who stands a good 8 inches over me is difficult to conceal with even the best conditions. As we scoot around the limestone handrails flanked by proud stone police officers, the worst happens. As they slam the door shut, their perp still squirming in their hands, the two officers turn around and see us mounting the stairs.

“Hey, hey, little Jane Doe got herself a catch,” Bullworth calls out sardonically. “And look at the size of this fishy, too. A coyote? Not only are you graduating to measurable game, you’re going after your own natural predator. Big balls for such a little girl.”

I promise myself that I’m trying skillfully to ignore it, but the truth is that I can’t. No, I stop dead in my tracks just two steps from the top. Quartz pulls ahead of me, but stops just short of the door. The cuffs shine in the fluorescent light. Their perp, some hopped-up otter, thrashes about in his chains babbling crazily, providing a strange overture to this otherwise unnatural silence. That collar on his neck zaps and crackles, but he seems to fight through it. Otters do have thick fur.

“Yes, Bullworth,” I say as I turn. “I’m doing my job; the same as I did yesterday, and the same as I did the day I started. And I see you and your pall Oxley over there got your own, too. It must be hard for men of your stature to bring in an otter hopped up on some pills he couldn’t handle. Why don’t you do the same thing I’m about to do and go inside to do your paperwork?”

Officer J. Bullworth is an officer most renowned, a word which has many meanings, for being one of the best performers in my precinct. A bull, large even for his species’ size, he generally handles problems in a singular way. His tool belt, obviously, only comes with one tool: a hammer, and his actions reflect that. Oxley, the dumber of the duo, if such a thing were possible, is a muskox who seems to fade into the ego of his partner. While quiet, he seems to be the kinder of the two.

I get this sort of harassment pretty often. Not only from Bullworth, but from others around the department. It’s his that stands out, mostly because it’s an annoying combination of incessant, obnoxious, and childish. He’s like the schoolyard bully that never really grew up. What’s worse is that I don’t really say anything about it to anybody. The admins won’t lift a finger to help. My mother would have a fit if she knew this were happening and my father would just say, ‘I told you so’ and flip to the next page in his paper.

“Oh-ho, so the runt has some teeth today, does she? Borrowing them from her boyfriend over there, maybe?” Bullworth says, remanding the custody of his perp into the hands of his partner. “Why don’t you hurry along before your serge gets a good old earful from his future commander, little girl, and I send you to work in dispatch where females belong. Or maybe I’ll punt you back uptown to mommy and daddy.”

He bends over at the waist to meet my eyes while still hovering generally above me, meaning to intimidate me. Usually this antic would work, but not tonight. No, tonight I’ve seen things I doubt would even curdle his blood. While I don’t see murder in his eyes, I see something very familiar, very primordial. That, and his fingers curling into a fist. Behind, the otter’s collar continues to snap and crackle as it almost continuously shocks him.

I feel a tug on my arm behind me and glance over just in time to see Quartz stepping backwards, off to the side. The door swings open above us and a lieutenant in his dress best comes out, flanked by a more modestly-dressed secretary. Both I and Bullworth give him a hasty salute, while he barely notices us at all.

The best the lieutenant can do is acknowledge us with a nod as he’s pulling on his jacket. But after that, he just turns back to his secretary for her to jot down some notes. He descends the stairs without even questioning what is happening on his doorstep and begins to cross the street to where many personal cars are parked.

“Do your job, Bullworth, and leave me alone when I’m doing mine,” I say and turn away. “I belong here, too, it isn’t just for freaks of nature like you.”

Quartz already has the door held open as I hope up the last few steps. A cool rush runs down the back of my neck, throwing itself off the tip of my tail. And it isn’t just the air conditioning, either. Bullworth doesn’t follow and Quartz lets the door swing shut behind him. This is probably the first time I’ve ever stood up to Bullworth, most likely the first time anyone has.

Bullworth runs the place as if he’s anything more than a regular sergeant, a position which provides power over exactly three officers, none of which are me. But that doesn’t stop him from using that power to make my life miserable. False calls to non-existent addresses, spreading gossip around the bullpen, losing or damaging my paperwork, if it has a name, he’s likely done or considered doing it.

“Brooks?” A voice says. “You in there?”

I snap out of my adrenaline-fueled dream and realize where I am. Main floor, near the desk sergeant, my precinct in Savanna Central. Quartz is looking down at me before he snaps his fingers before the end of my snout. The reason why I’m here comes back and I look to him in stunned silence, my heart still trying to beat its way out of my chest.

“What was that about?” He asks, genuinely concerned.

I feel my face flush.

“Ugh, that?” I reply. “Nothing, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

With that, I lead him over to one of many benches lining the front wall. Taking the cuff off of my own wrist, I put it down briskly onto the wrought iron armrest. The benches are sometimes used for temporary holding, and are thusly bolted firmly to the floor. Quartz sees what I’ve done and, surprisingly, doesn’t protest or give me any attitude. He doesn’t seem to buy my excuse.

“Wait here, I’m going to talk to the desk sergeant and get the film sent downstairs to be developed,” I explain to him.

“Wait.”

I go to turn away, but, I don’t get very far. Quartz reaches out and grabs my wrist, causing me a bit of shock, my hand still to unconsciously reach for my weapon. But when I turn around, I see there’s nothing to fear. We make eye contact and he lets go of my arm.

“Here,” he says and slowly reaches into his coat pocket. “Take this too.”

His fingers rustle around in that pocket for a moment and then he produces something surprising: another roll of film. He presents it to me and I take it from him. Afterwards, his arms relax.

“What’s this?” I ask him.

“I took two rolls of photos,” he tells me. “The one in the camera is what I had when I climbed the fire escape. The other was from below, when I was staking out the joint. I caught some pictures of the guy entering and of them in the window. I don’t know how valuable they are, but, they’re there.”

“T-thanks,” I say and pocket the roll, smiling uncontrollably.

“Sure,” he replies. “Your life . . . seems hard enough. And while you’re a cop, I’m not looking to make it worse.”

I’m shocked. I go to thank him, an odd thought, but he’s already turned away, searching for another cigarette. Bemused, I say nothing. Turning around, I walk over to the desk sergeant, a middle-aged rabbit I know named Ginny. She’s reading a magazine as I walk up, though I’m pretty sure she saw and heard everything that happened since I got here, most likely more than that.

“Well, look whose back already,” she says excitedly with a smile. “I wasn’t expecting you until after midnight.”

“Hey, Ginny,” I say and lean onto the desk, which is almost too tall for me to do so. “I need you to send some film downstairs to be developed. And I need you to take this camera to my desk. And it’s an emergency, orders straight from the captain.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard on the shortwave,” she says. “Grizzly stuff, isn’t it?”

She gives a chuckle and then spins on her chair to the intercom controls. She presses it and a loud screech comes from the ceiling, making my ears lay back in pain. It’s like claws down a chalkboard amplified by a hundred.

“Evidence, you have material waiting at the front desk, code fifty eight. Evidence, you have material waiting at the front desk, code fifty eight, thank you!” She says cheerily into the long microphone sticking up from the desk.

As I’m placing the two canisters of film onto her desk, the camera separate from the other pieces, Ginny stands up onto her seat and leans down across her desk. She has this look in her eyes, broadcasting that ‘Gossip Girl Ginny’ has something she needs to dig into. She’s so excited I can almost see my reflection in her front teeth. I don’t even try to turn away, there’s no escaping this, at least for now.

“So, who’s the perp?” She asks me, though that isn’t the question she actually asked.

“He’s not a perp—yet, Ginny, he’s a material witness,” I explain matter-of-factly. “He provided the evidence I’m getting developed and entered into the system.”

“Oh, he’s not a perp, huh? Maybe you just like playing with your cuffs?” She asks knowingly. “You know, this is the first time you brought a male around. I was beginning to think you were infertile or a bug lady. Oh, that’s the word, they say, though I don’t believe it, not at all. Either that or you’re hoping to go to city hall and marry your job. And he’s not even a buck, too! What happened to Terry?”

Oh, my god, Ginny.

“Ugh, nothing. Nothing happened with Terry, Ginny. Goodbye!” I say in reply and take a step away from the desk, wanting desperately to get away from this conversation.

No luck, though. Ginny grabs my shirt sleeve and drags me back. Looking over my shoulder, I see Quartz giving me a look like he won’t, he can’t, and he most definitely shan’t help me. He’s pulled a handkerchief with one hand and rattles his handcuffs with the other mockingly, like this is my fault. The handkerchief goes over coat and hands, where the blood has all but dried. I moan in displeasure.

“So are you into that, then, Jane, is that it?” She asks, more interested than should be healthy. “Never pegged you for a predo. Oh, sure, maybe date an elk, or a moose, or even some other prey, but a coyote? Mmm, that’s some juicy stuff. Straight out of Tiger Crest.”

She does this little shoulder wiggle, like she’s enjoying this too much.

“No, really, Ginny, we’re just working together, really,” I insist to her, exasperatedly trying to pull away from her iron grip. “And right now, we need to go. Goodbye, Ginny!”

I finally slip free my shirt and beeline back across the small aisle to where Quartz is quietly chuckling to himself. Fumbling with the keys, I unlock his handcuff and then drag him onto his feet. Without bothering to cuff him to my arm, I push him across the room towards my desk in the mostly empty bullpen.

“We’ll catch up later, right, Jane?” Ginny calls over the back of the desk area for everyone around to hear. “I’ll get to really meet him, right, Jane? Jane?”

My face couldn’t be any redder.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Jane's life as a female beat officer in the late 1970s. Sexism abounds, and Jane tries to persevere and do a good job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another fine chapter. Here we get to see what it's like being the lone female beat officer in a very male-dominated environment, as well as a predator being surrounded by prey animals with a chip on their shoulder. I know interest is starting to wane for my series, but, I do want to upload a few more chapters. It's hard when I don't know if what I'm doing is entertaining to you all, so feedback is always appreciated. The next couple are very interesting as we approach the end of our first act. Don't miss the exciting events that are soon to occur! As always, if you enjoy this, go own down to the original fan-comic and give that a view. While I'm not related to them, I think you'll find that comic to be twice as awesome, which is why I began to write this story in the first place. Thanks for stopping by, and enjoy!
> 
> Premise: The year is late 197-something. Or maybe very early 198-something. It has been roughly 15 years, or maybe closer to 20, since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 6:

It's so hard to think in here. The bullpen back at the precinct is supposed to be the officer's home base, their home-away-from-home. I've never once felt that way, that this is a home-away-from-home. This place feels more like a high school I've trapped myself to work in for twenty years. Despite how much I liked my training, and the prospect of standing up for the city and making a name for myself, every job has its downsides. It's really the worst part about working this job: the people I work with.

If it isn't people like Captain Whitebuck, whom I do respect and admire somewhat, making a choice to put his career before this department, it's people like Bullworth making working here as an average police officer miserable. Bullworth has, graciously, decided to leave me alone after our little spat outside, but that doesn't mean anybody else will.

Bullworth is a special case, but he illustrates the issues I have to deal with on a daily basis. Oh, sure, I came armed from college with the ability to protect myself from any sexual harassment that might come with working in a job where 85% of its employees are male, and where 99% of all beat cops city-wide are male. Thankfully I get very little of that, the officers opting for avoidance.

But what I didn't come prepared for was the constant nagging feeling that I'll never really be good enough for any of these people. I take the most disliked shift, assigned to the most difficult department in the entire ZPD, I work the longest shifts and make the most arrests and still, it's never enough. My rewards are more work, worse shifts, and worse beats. I could have worked a cushy beat route in the financial center Downtown, or in the hotels and spas of Sahara Square. But, no, I'm working here.

I've tied Quartz up to the desk as I sit, filling out paperwork covering our adventures up to this point: initial arrest, first responder's report, not to mention the evidence entries, and the paperwork required for emergency access to precinct equipment. In the quiet, over the shuffling of papers and the scratch of pen or pencil on it, I can hear chatter.

A quick glance up gives me a clear line of sight to a couple of officers on the other side of the pen, giggling. One of them points my way and mimics something that I want to take as insulting. Something that makes me think of snogging. God, I bet Ginny is already running her mouth to every cop that comes by her. By morning, I'll be known as the 'predo' on top of the lone woman working the beat at this precinct.

It's all too much to take at once. I sigh and lean forward, giving my forehead a rub. With all the excitement, my head is pounding. Must be an aftereffect of having so much adrenaline pumping at once and then having the rug pulled out from under me. I blink at Quartz, who has been silent for an uncomfortable amount of time and see that he has been watching me this whole time. He's been quiet, kind. I don't know what that's about.

"It'll probably be a few more minutes until the evidence is processed. This stuff takes time, even on emergency requests like this," I explain to him, trying to get my mind somewhere work-related.

"Sure, I understand," he replies, courteously. "I know my way around developing film. Comes with the territory."

"Right," I say, suspicious. "Why don't you tell me the story again, for the records? When this is all over, the less time you and I have to spend back here doing this, the better."

I pull out the corresponding paperwork and begin to fill it out. The beginning of the story I remember him telling me. It's everything in the middle that is sort of murky or completely untouched. He leans forward and looks over what I've written from the other side of my desk, his chains clanging when he pulls them taut. He gives an approving nod and then sits back into his seat again.

"Ok, you told me you see the perp arrive. What next?" I ask.

"He gets out of a taxi, obviously coming from somewhere across town," he says. "He's dressed to conceal. He must know this is taboo at best, an action punishable by being ostracized at worst. I watch from the street, this still a job for me, of course. I take a couple of photos of them meeting, embracing. Then they eat some dinner, I think, illuminated by candlelight and TV screen. At this point and from my angle, it's all shadows and silhouettes. This should all be on the first roll of film."

I dutifully write all of this down, trying to recreate it just as he's telling it, so that when it's entered into the file it isn't mucked up somewhere down the line. Quartz pauses as I write, my fingers moving as quickly as I can, making it as clean as possible. When I double check what I've written down, I glance back up to signal him to continue.

He continues, "It's maybe a half an hour before I'm convinced I'm not going to get the shots I need from the ground level. Can't rule something true unless you get the money shot, the customers don't like that. I figure, well, no point going up through the building. If I go up through it, there's no way I'd get any shots of them, not without windows in the hallway."

"So the fire escape?" I interject.

"Yeah, the fire escape. Window on the outside is open, curtains billowing in the wind, it seemed like a perfect route. I gotta add, by this point, everything seemed to be going smoothly for them, at least there didn't seem to be any fighting. I crossed the street and went to the bottom of the ladder. That's when I got whiff that something wasn't right. Once I got in earshot, I realized they were yelling. Then I heard glass break. As I climbed up, the fight got more and more intense, though I couldn't really make out any words."

"Why continue up at all?" I ask him, clarifying it for the record.

"Why walk your beat every day?" He replies. "It's your job. And this was mine. By the time I got up to the third floor, things had deteriorated to a point that wasn't recognizable anymore. The boyfriend? He was nothing more than a flurry of claws, teeth, and fur. I snapped a couple of pictures in quick succession, on the second roll, crouched outside of the window.

"The flash I stuck in beforehand must have spooked the guy and he went ballistic. Started tearing up the joint and disappeared after steamrolling the front door. That must've been when I dropped my camera off over the railing. When it clicked for me what I had just witnessed, I went inside through the open window to see if the girl--if maybe she was alive. She wasn't. She just wasn't."

And that's when I showed up. I finish my notes and then put an 'x' on each place where I need him to initial or sign. Spinning it around, I slide it into his fingers and he reads over everything quickly before signing, in big, swooping letters, Jack Francis Quartz. He hands it back silently and I stick it into the file the lieutenant gave me with everything else that I filled out for Ashe.

"So what now?" Quartz asks as I lean back in my chair.

"We wait," I reply. "You must be used to that in your line of business."

"More than I care to be," he replies. "But compared to being crouched down in the garbage waiting to catch somebody's old man or lady coming home early to bang the postal worker, this is a lucky break. But, hey, I get paid by the day."

Paid by the day? It's almost like the longer he could stretch out a job, the more he'd get paid. That seems scuzzy. Or is that just my judgement of him coming through? Hard to tell. The amount of mixed messages this guy sends me is headache-inducing. I was taught to get inside people's heads, to figure them out while I was in the academy. But I can't read this guy with the amount of times his personality has switched.

Is he some sort of Average Joe just going about his job? Or is he a bottom feeder content with just barely making ends meet in the easiest way possible? First he won't talk to any of the detectives, and the psychologist, well, she comes up with null. Then he seems to open up when I come in and give him the time of day. Is that being smart, or being an opportunist? Well, he is a coyote. They'd probably take the easiest route at the first sign.

But, then he's miserable again. Like that easy route didn't go the way he wanted to and he's resentful for it. And now he seems to be personable once more. Is that because of the scene outside? If it is, why would he care? I'm just thrown for a loop that I can't seem to get my fingers around. Or maybe I'm just contemplating the white spots in my tawny brown fur just a little too hard.

"Did you always do this?" I ask him, without really thinking.

"Being a private eye?" He asks.

I look up and nod.

"No, not even remotely," he says. "I've done this for almost two years now, maybe a little less. While life hasn't exactly been milk and honey, I've been relatively successful so far. I can't say I can complain. Why do you care?"

I shrug, which is not entirely an honest response. Knowing more about him gives me a little better judgement about him.

"We have time to kill," I say to him. "Plus, we're gonna spend a lot of time together, and it would be smart for me to know something about you. Why, don't you trust me?"

"Like you said, no, Officer, I most certainly do not but we have a deal," he says, though with a smirk on his lips. "What about me? Do you trust the 'fucking chomper'?"

I lock eyes with him, wondering how he heard that. Then again, with how loud that beaver was screaming, I suddenly wonder why I would think he wouldn't hear that. After that, I just ponder the question. Do I really trust him? I guess at the end of the day I have to. Then again, he's still in cuffs, even in a building filled with police officers. But I doubt that's what he's asking me now.

"I . . ." I begin to say, before pausing.

"Officer Brooks?" A voice suddenly asks.

I turn to my left to see a courier, a hare, holding a thick manila envelope under his left arm. He pulls it out and presents it to me. Then he tips his hat at me and proceeds to eye up the coyote who sits across from me. The photos, finally, and they couldn't have come at a better moment. I let my answer disappear with that courier.

Untwisting the tie holding the envelope shut, I reach inside and pull out the thick stack of large 8x10 photographs. They're still slightly warm to the touch, too, as if they were printed mere seconds ago. Spreading them across my desk, it's like watching a movie in slow motion spread across my workspace.

To the far right is the most recent photo to have been taken, so I start to the left. The first photograph is a still of Savannah, still very much alive and wearing a very fine, black dress and standing in her front bay window, where the bedroom is. Then there's a photo of the new boyfriend, arriving in a taxi.

His entire frame is covered up, head-to-toe, as if to conceal himself. I'm wondering if he knew what he was doing was very wrong, or if he suspected he was being watched. Either way, the photos of him exiting the car and heading upstairs don't show even a hint as to who he is. The photos that follow show a relatively normal, if taboo, acts of the burgeoning couple.

She greets him, her shadow cast on the back wall as she opens the door to let him in. They embrace, very sensually, and then they seem to sit down to eat, the light inside the apartment dimming. Their shadows portray a very happy evening of food, wine, and conversation. After some time they get up and disappear into a back room.

The first roll of film seems to end there, it's the last one seen from the street. He's right, none of these photos definitively prove that she was cheating, or who this person is. In the next photo, the story of Savannah comes to an abrupt end. The 'money shot', he calls it. The next six photos must have been taken in quick succession, most likely over a thirty second period.

First there's a shot of him, back towards the camera, hovering over the body of Savannah which is splayed out in the center of her apartment. The entire room is already in disarray, though there are some marks I remember that I don't see here. The next two has him turning towards the camera, to give a full view of his face, and then the shine of teeth and eyes in the flash.

He's a leopard, a wide, wild one, big as a house and as thick as a truck. And the look in his eyes makes me think that's all he is: a creature. The only words that I can use to describe him are 'crazed' and 'savage'. It all confirms everything that Quartz has given me. Nobody the coyote's size could have done even half of the damage to this apartment.

The final photos are of the perp, giving a false lunge towards the camera and then turning away and making a beeline towards the door, tearing up everything in his wake. It must have been after this that Quartz drops the camera. Yeah, there is another photo that was taken afterwards, of it making its way over the side of the railing, a blurry hand reaching out away from it.

"Jesus," I mutter to myself as I sit back into my chair.

Quartz doesn't say anything, he just looks to the photos and then to me. Looking over him, my thoughts begin to wander. This guy, he just went mad. No, he went madder than mad, he went wild, savage. It's like he reverted back into some primal form that I didn't know truly existed in preds. Like the things my father used to say. Jesus, he can't be right, can he?

Oh, sure, my father always swore by the fact that preds were always further down the evolutionary ladder than the rest of us, but this isn't possible, is it? What did it take for this leopard to devolve from a normal, functioning citizen, to whatever it is that's in this photo? What happened in those missing minutes? Could it affect any predator? What about the one sitting across from me?

Quartz suddenly looks away from me, his brow furrowing. My thoughts stray, wondering why he's suddenly angry. Was it the way I looked, or looked at him? I don't have the time to figure that out. The next hour or so are spent working with our support team to match a name to this face. It takes a lot of digging on their part, but a name finally surfaces: Jacob Joffer. And that's literally it. It comes from an expired driver's license lodged with the City of Zootopia about four years ago.

All of the remaining information is out of date or missing entirely. The address listed no longer exists, that road was closed off when the new train line went out towards the Animalia complex, which was then under construction. Other than that, there are no occupations, no relationships, or any crimes listed. If he was ever booked, those records are long gone. There aren't even any traffic violations.

I leave Quartz upstairs the entire time, handcuffed to my desk. Not only does he not complain, he doesn't say a word at all. When I return to him, it's almost as if he never moved an inch. I collect what evidence I'll need, including photos and my street jacket before I plan our next move. It's been threatening to rain all day, and I'd like not to get caught in it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cruel look at life for predators in this city. And sometimes, even at our best, we aren't always heroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're closing in on the finale of our first act, folks, so stay tuned! In this chapter, Jane gets to get to her real job: investigating the case. No longer trapped by the confines of the precinct, both predator and prey hit the streets to track down the now-named, now-faced murderer. But finding that lead may be hard for her, a female, and a prey species, in the historically predator-dominated area of the city. We also talk about some of the politics going on behind the scenes in the city, and get to see the unfortunate result of the collars instituted city-wide long ago. Any kind of feedback from you guys is very much appreciated! I know it's kind of unusual to read a novel-length story on any furry sites, as well as ones that are still technically fanfiction. So, to those of you that have read this far, thanks so much for your time! I hope you enjoy this chapter and the ones that may come! Thanks for stopping by!
> 
> Premise: The year is late 197-something. Or maybe very early 198-something. It has been roughly 15 years, or maybe closer to 20, since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 7:

Quartz, oh, so helpfully, finally suggests hitting up a few bars in the area to try to scrape up some leads, since the precinct couldn't provide us anything more, which is an idea I had as well. He says that everybody needs to socialize, even the possibly criminally insane. And most people will hit up a bar or restaurant near to their own home, which is most likely where the preds will choose to live: Happy Town. So his contribution is the places most likely to be visited by our suspect.

At least we're now able to take a car instead of being forced to ride the dingy public transportation system. Since I don't work with another officer and haven't been assigned a patrol car, I'm forced to take my own: a relatively new Chrysalis Zootopian. That car is probably the only thing that has made my father happy in years. And outside of what little stuff I own at my apartment, it's my most prized possession.

At first things seem to go well. Quartz is able to conjure up four or five little hole-in-the-wall dives that a pred like him would frequent. They're mostly on the very edge of the neighborhood proper as well, making it likely to be a place that Savannah might have stopped at on her way home or after getting off of a shift at her job Downtown.

But that's when we hit a roadblock: the animals there. Being a pred-heavy neighborhood, seeing a white tail like me makes them standoffish. Seeing one in uniform makes them suspicious. Finally, seeing one handcuffed to a predator, well, that just shuts everyone up entirely. I try to force something out of the staff at every place, but most turn their noses up. "I don't know" becomes a very popular phrase. After two years, I'm used to it, but can't change their minds.

We finally catch a break at the very last location, a 24-hour diner on the edge of Downtown proper. A ditzy waitress, a cow and one of the few prey species I speak to, there tells me that she swears she recognizes the cat's driver's license photo. She says she sees him come in all the time during the day and night. The short order cook, a bear, tries to drag her away, doesn't want them to get involved. What he means is, he doesn't trust me. But I don't let them get away, instead pressing them harder.

He only stops trying to stonewall me when I roll out the story of Savannah's murder, of course redacting any information that might identify her, and show the pair Joffer's picture. The chef then offers up a piece of advice that seems conclusive: the Aries. He says to go there, says preds like him frequent it and we'd find something there.

At the mention of the Aries, Quartz seems to become apprehensive. While he didn't seem very helpful convincing any of these people to talk, and not minding having him quiet for a few minutes, I find it very odd that he's somehow defied physics to become even quieter. As we're leaving the diner, raindrops now threatening to fall from the already over cast skies, I can't take the silence anymore.

As I pull shut the door on my car, I look over and ask him, "What do you think so far?"

"I think we've finally gotten a good lead," he says dismissively.

He doesn't look my direction even once, even while he's putting on his seatbelt. It's highly obvious he's trying his best to avoid any kind of eye contact to try to keep me from asking, which makes me want to ask even more.

"What do you know about the Aries?" I ask him more directly this time.

"Well, it's a pretty large venue on the edge of Downtown," he says, still looking out the window on his side of the car. "It's pred-heavy and generally caters to pred tastes, but I believe the owner is a prey species of some kind."

"Have you been?" I press him.

He licks his lips, seeming to consider his response before he gives it.

"Yes," he replies. "A couple of times. Not in a very long while, but, I used to know it quite well."

"Then stop holding out," I say to him, trying to be as non-confrontational as possible. "What do you know about the place?"

He sighs and looks over. I turn the key in the ignition and the small V8 under the hood roars to life. As I shift it into gear, the headlights coming on to illuminate the blacktop in front of me, rain starts to splatter onto the windshield. Slowly at first, then quicker. I throw the wipers on and then slow the vehicle into traffic.

"The Aries Theater is a concert hall slash nightclub that functions solely to provide preds entertainment in a city that isn't very friendly to them. It's one of the oldest in the city, predating the majority of the buildings built in ole Happy Town since it was called that," Quartz says as he looks out of the window. "And because it attracts such a large audience, it means it often serves as a base for some unsavory clientele."

"Like Joffer?" I ask him.

"I doubt it," Quartz replies. "Joffer doesn't seem like the type that would operate out of the Aries. And I highly doubt the Aries would protect him. There's a difference between organized crime and random murderers. It's more likely that Joffer just frequented it because it was a welcoming environment for him and nothing more."

I would beg to disagree, but his assessment at least makes sense. Most cops know about the Aries as well, and about as much as Quartz has just stated. The place has been accused of housing one of the Five Families, organizations that run the underground and perform other criminal activities around the city and possibly beyond. But no conclusive proof has ever emerged from it.

"Would the employees recognize the photo if we showed it to them?" I ask.

His lips purse.

"Yes," he replies flatly.

"Would they tell us?"

"No."

"I'll make sure I talk very clearly, then." I reply, confident.

"You don't get it, do you?" He suddenly says. "The moment you walk in there and flash that badge, those people will not even acknowledge your existence. If we're lucky, they'll let you beat your head against the wall until you're bloody and let us leave."

"Then we'll have to get a warrant," I say, annoyed.

Then I realize that that would be a dumb move and wish I hadn't said it aloud. Getting a warrant at this time of night, just after one am by the digital display on the radio, would be difficult at best. And then serving the warrant would present its own challenges. I guide the car through traffic as the rain begins to pick up, threatening to dump a deluge of water on the city.

"No, I won't," I reply before he can comment. "We'll have to find another angle to this, then. Let me think."

I turn the radio up and an FM station comes through loud and clear. Some popular Gazelle song plays for about a half a minute and then begins to fade into the silence. The station plays its call sign, WZOO, and then begins to banter off the weather, traffic, and news for the hour. According to the weather radar, the rain is supposed to carry on all the way through daybreak, making me thankful I'm no longer on foot. I'd be soaked by now.

Traffic accidents are reported in the usual places around the city: highways leading out to the Burrows at the cross-channel bottleneck, a couple of fender benders and disabled vehicles Downtown, and a particularly nasty one up in Tundratown with emergency personnel on site. The radio plays a short commercial and then rings off a ditty before the news is read out.

"Welcome, WZOO listeners to the weekend at last," the announcer sings cheerily. "Mayor Bellwether is set to announce that comprehensive funding for historically segregated predator schools shall be increased by a little over twenty percent, triggering a strong reaction from the predator representatives on city council who had pushed for just under thirty-five percent. They claim they aren't reaching the funding levels currently present at historically prey-only schools, and are falling further behind each year.

"In other news, the CAEP, or Collars and Effective Policing, Act has failed to come to a vote. The two predator representatives on the nine member council admonished their fellows for failing to even consider the reform and removal of the shock collars that keep unruly predators in line. Of the remaining seven, only two had expressed any amount of support. If brought a vote, it would be the first time in Zootopia history that collar removal was considered. A new vote has yet to be announced, though it is unlikely to pass even if voted on anytime soon, especially with the city-wide elections just months away. Mayor Bellwether has declined to make her stance clear. Looking to sports--"

I sort of tune the rest of it out. The city council was considering removing the collar requirements for predators again? How did I miss that? Have I been buried in my work that much? It's such an odd thought, predators suddenly no longer required to wear the shock collars. How would that affect us? Something tells me that would make our jobs that much more difficult.

"It'll never happen," I mention without thinking.

"What won't?" Quartz replies.

"The collar reform," I clarify. "They'll never do it. It almost feels like they've been talking about that since the fences came down. I just don't think the will is there."

"On the council? Or in public?"

"Both, and each because of the other," I say. "The council representatives and the mayor don't bother pushing forward doomed proposals because the public would never accept it. Well, the forty percent of predators that make up the public would, but how many of the prey species would? Not enough."

"So they shouldn't push for any reform because it's unpopular? That's cruel," Quartz says, a little louder than before.

"That's politics. I see it every day. Risk nothing you can't afford to lose, and don't ever lose face. Most of the representatives would lose their jobs if they voted to approve it. And the pushback from the Fraternal Order of Police and the Prison Officer's Union would be immeasurable. Most would rather just let the preds continue to wear the collars like they're used to," I say with a shrug.

Quartz leans forward in the car. He pulls down the collar of his jacket and shows me the shock collar wrapped around his neck, compacting his white, brown, and gray fur tightly around his neck. The battery and monitor unit mounted slightly off-center left blinks a small light to let the user know it's charged and ready to use. The myriad of metal prongs that jab down below the fur are just barely visible from where I sit.

"Used to?" He asks, annoyed. "They put this thing on me before I even hit puberty. I don't even remember what it's like to not wear this thing. In just about fifteen years and probably as many adjustments with growth, I have yet to become truly accustomed to wearing this stupid thing. And if you wore one, you'd say the same thing."

I try to guide the car while still looking to the coyote either in the rearview mirror or directly, a bit surprised Quartz has gotten this ardent. Thankfully the traffic has all but thinned out by this time at night, especially this far from the bump and bustle of the clubs Downtown. Though I try to pay attention anyways, because smaller vehicles, especially those made for rodents or other smaller species, can be difficult to see past my boat of a car.

"I'm just saying those collars must serve a purpose," I say with a shrug and a shake of the head. "Why else would they be mandatory for predators? Without those collars, people like Joffer would be roaming the streets in droves and predators would be harmed by it just as much as the prey species would. It would be absolute chaos."

Why is he getting so worked up about this? A quiet buzz comes from the other side of the car as Quartz leans forward, his collar blinking yellow.

"Are you joking?" He demands in a loud voice. "These collars are mandatory for one reason and one reason only: fear. People like Mayor Bellwether and her stoolies on the council fear people like me. And then they use people like Jacob Joffer as a buffer to justify their response to the vast, unquestioning public."

"And that response is to protect animals," I say, trying to not raise my voice as loud as his, but failing. "It's all for your protection!"

"My protection?!"

The nerve that I've hit must be massive as the collar around his neck begins to buzz and beep, the light burning bright red, and then to shock. He gasps for breath and begins to thrash around in his seat, his paws reaching out at anything he can get in order to get a grip. But he can't, those claws slide effortlessly off of the alligator leather that makes up the majority of this faux-luxury car's interior. Meanwhile that collar throws off a deadly buzz and a spray of electricity that illuminates every contour of my car.

His cries are almost heart wrenching, tears streaming down from his eyes. I've never heard a canine yelp the way he does, crying out in fear and pain. Out of my own worry and surprise, I pull the car gently off to the side of the main stretch we're on. But by the time I come to a standstill, the shock treatment has passed. He's panting and whimpering, but quiet and calm. The collar has done its job, and well, too.

Thank god for modern technology.

Quartz sits in his seat, his head resting on the cool of my window, curled towards the door. His ears are folded back and his mouth hangs agape, his black nose running slightly. Streaks of tears run down from his eyes and he gasps for breath until his breathing becomes steady and measured. I cross my arms, my tail flicking behind my back. The only noise in the car is from the engine and the guitars over the radio from some new band out of the Rainforest District.

"See, it's for your protection," I tell him. "Just try to keep calm and you'll never know it's there."

"J--just," Quartz says slowly, quietly, "just drive."

I do. The radio is turned off, though I was actually enjoying the music they were playing for once. The rain is now coming down pretty hard, and I have the windshield wipers going as fast as they're made to go. My rouge-colored cruiser moves through like a rocket. As I round the final turn onto Grasslands Avenue, we're able to see the venue up ahead.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Jackie visit the Aries Club in Savanna Central, just inside Happy Town, to follow a lead. Will Jane trust the coyote enough to let him take the lead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This possibly my favorite chapter. Here, Jane and Jackie go to the Aries club in Savanna Central to find a lead to the murderer's home, to see if anything can be found there. Will Jane trust the coyote enough to let him take the lead? For those of you who stop by and read my stuff, I thank you so much for your time! I hope you're enjoying everything so far and that'll you stick around as there is definitely more the come!
> 
> Premise: The year is late 197-something. Or maybe very early 198-something. It has been roughly 15 years, or maybe closer to 20, since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter: 8

The Aries sign rises bright through the night, it's red and yellow neon tubing cutting through the darkness: A-R-I-E-S, hung vertically, flashing and then lighting up sequentially. Below it, a movie theater-like board lists the upcoming attractions: the 17th: Jerry Vole, the 21st: Ray Snarls, the 28th: Marten Gaye. The only thing listed for tonight is open mic night.

I pull into a recently vacated spot directly across the street from the front entrance and kill the engine. By now I have no idea how to get into that place in such a way that will convince those within to cooperate with us. Half of me wants to just do my job, go in as a police officer, and accomplish what needs to be.

And probably fail.

I sigh and say, "Ok. I've racked my brain, but I've got nothing. This is your area of expertise. So, how do we do this?"

Quartz lowers his head as if he didn't really hear me. My ears lay back, but I try to calm myself back down.

"If we're going to ever finish this, meaning you'll be able to walk away a free animal, we need to make this work," I say to him.

"Say 'I need your help'," he says with a cough.

"What?" I ask him, disbelievingly.

What is he on about now?

"Say 'I need your help'," he repeats. "You're very good at police duties, Brooks. But this is a situation that calls for a different set of skills. You don't trust me, fine. But, for Jesus's sake, trust me enough to let me do what I do best, OK?"

He turns and looks to me for a brief second before looking away. I sigh loudly, briefly rubbing my forehead from the frustration. Well, if I go at this head-on, I won't get anywhere. Just give it to him, then. He might be right anyways.

"Ok, yes, I need your help," I say flatly after a long pause.

"Fine," he replies, "good enough."

I sigh again, wishing I didn't have to play these games. He turns to face me in the seats and wipes his face off quickly.

"Ok, first thing's first: uncuff me," he suddenly instructs.

"What?!" I exclaim, surprised. "No, there's no way I'm going to uncuff you. You'll bolt!"

"To where? Off to be hunted down and treated as if I did this? No thanks. So, if you want to get this lead, you'll uncuff me. Remember, finding this guy is for your protection as much as it is mine," he then says, throwing my own words back in my face.

I grumble loudly, not appreciating the attitude. But I comply, if only begrudgingly. When the cuff falls from his wrist, he rubs his fur and sighs with some relief. I remove the other cuff from my own wrist and then hang them onto my belt.

"Next thing you gotta do: ditch the belt," he says matter-of-factly.

"Ok, uncuffing you is one thing, but I am not leaving my equipment belt behind when we go in there," I argue loudly. "We'll be completely unprotected!"

"Oh, and that reminds me, you gotta leave your badge, too," he continues to order. "Anything that lets these people know that you're a cop has to stay behind. You're lucky you have a jacket that isn't police-branded or I'd advise you to leave your shirt behind, too."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I demand of him.

But before he can respond, or solely so he doesn't have to, he's already opened the door and stepped out into the rain outside. His collar throws off sparks as each raindrop touches the unit, completing a circuit that isn't supposed to. The collar to his overcoat is quickly turned up against the elements. Then I watch through the rain-streaked window as my charge marches across the wide avenue into the darkness.

"Son of a bitch," I say through clenched teeth.

The belt is easy enough to undo, but hard to just toss aside. Somehow I find the strength to do it, though, laying it down gently between the bucket seats. The badge, though, I find almost impossible to take off. I don't find the strength to do that. I won't be forced to throw away my entire identity for some crap like this.

No, I shove it into one of my breast pockets and then zipper up my jacket. After I lock the car, I make a run for the dry patch beneath the sign hanging from the street façade of the building. Quartz stands waiting. I'm thankful he didn't think to run, but he's at least right that doing so probably wouldn't be smart. While he's unsavory, I've never accused him of lacking intelligence. By the time I reach him, my tawny brown fur glistens with raindrops, and the patches of white around my chin and chest are almost translucent.

He chuckles as I drip onto the relatively dry sidewalk. I give him a 'shut up' stare and he turns to hold the door open for me.

"Ladies first," he says sarcastically, though not mean-spiritedly.

"Oh, ha-ha, what a gentleman," I say in turn.

Once inside the door, everything goes black. Heavy R&B music bumps from somewhere up ahead, muffled by closed doors and thick, sound-proof wall coverings. After a few long moments of adjustment, light begins to trickle from small, intricate treble clef windows set into a set of doors in front of me. The light that comes through is filtered blue and red, respectively, from the colored glass.

Quartz moves around on my left, towards the door and gently opens the one while glancing back towards me. The music pours out like a torrent of water, heavy bass lines pockmarked with the occasional slap vibrate the wooden floors under my hooves. A singing guitar pierces above, beckoning all those within listening distance to enter. Finally, a small drum set completes the smooth, club-style music piece.

"Come on," Quartz says, cocking his head.

He then disappears through the door, with me following. A bit of unease hangs at the bottom of my stomach. Being unarmed, being unable to flash my badge in order to get myself out of a jam, that's frightening. I give my badge a squeeze for reassurance. I'm not even completely convinced doing this is legal, or at least not against ZPD protocol. Maybe I'm just not thrilled with following Quartz and not having it the other way around.

The moment I'm on the other side of that door that feeling goes from moderate unease to a screaming siren. My tail tucks far down the back of my black pants. Eyes rest on me from every corner of this dark, smoke-filled theater house, glistening with the reflections from the house lights hung high above. Predators of every stripe and color turn to look at the interloper, at the prey, that has entered their midst.

I do my best to try to hold myself unlike a cop. But that's hard. For over two years, that's been my identity. And it's been my goal for so much longer. So hiding it, let alone casting it away, is an exercise in futility. I think the appearance of police is so strong that these animals can just smell it. It's like a powder keg, the only thing left is a spark.

I step down a set of wide, sloping risers that allow rows of red leather-clad booths to sit recessed into the floor, stadium-style. They wrap around the far back of the theater, curving so that they are all facing towards a large, now underutilized stage at the very back. At the very bottom of the steps, where the dark red carpeting comes to an abrupt end, is a wood-floored dancefloor.

The entire building is filled to bursting with animals. While a majority are predators, I do notice a few prey here and there who seem just as dangerous as their fanged companions. Waitresses carrying silver trays of glasses or boxes filled with cigarettes and cigars step by me without really seeing me. Couples dressed in their Friday bests cuddle around the candle-lit centerpieces at their tables. All of this is almost impossible to see through the constant presence of tobacco smoke. And maybe smoke that isn't tobacco.

A group of large cats stare me down as I pass them by, slouching in their seats as a canine of undiscernible breed bends over to present them their drinks. A group of large wolves watch me go by, dressed in some of the finest suits I've ever seen. They appear to only be interested in some new development, as opposed to being offended by my mere presence. They make me think mobsters by the way they hold and dress themselves.

Once I reach the bottom, I follow the carpeting off to the left, where a long, arching bar fills up a dark recess on the side of the theater. Red-shaded lights hung from the bar ceiling illuminate the area only enough to see who you're talking to and what you're drinking. Quartz has already sat himself down on one of the plush, red-and-black upholstered stools.

He makes little time trying to bring as much attention to himself as possible. Quartz bangs a clenched fist onto the countertop, which is only barely audible above the band playing mere yards away. The bartender, a wildebeest dressed in a tight black-and-white button-down shirt and smooth pin-striped pants, turns to look down to his new clientele.

Before he makes his way down the bar, he picks up the receiver to a phone beneath the counter and speaks several words into it before returning it to its cradle. Then he begins to, seemingly begrudgingly, make his way down to the far opposite end of the bar where Quartz has decided we will sit. As he approaches, still seating myself, the way this guy walks makes me want to flash my badge now and call this a raid.

Quartz seems to sense it and gives me a look to try to calm me down. After fondling my badge, I put my arms up onto the counter and wait. I'm sure he'll screw this up, and then we'll do it my way.

"Jackie goddamn Quartz," the wildebeest says as the band winds down, "I thought we told you to stay the hell away from this place. I thought Gino made that very bloody clear."

"Pump the brakes there, Zan, I'm not here to socialize," Quartz says, leaning forward. "I'm here on business."

Snorting, the bartender doesn't seem impressed. Up on the stage, the band brings their song to a close to moderate applause. They then announce a break and the low roar of chatter rears up from the audience behind us. Glancing as they step down from the stage, I see that they're a mixture of pred and prey, which is interesting. What's more interesting is the black, grand piano shining in the house lights near the back of the stage. It seems out of place here.

"Screw your business, you conniving coyote," Zan spits. "You're not supposed to be here. Get out. Now!"

The wildebeest pounds a fist down hard into the wooden bar, making the whole thing vibrate. Full glasses of booze and beer down the counter chitter and clatter in the sudden silence. Quartz doesn't seem deterred, though my heart beats in my chest from both worry and the need to end this argument. The coyote shoots me a look to keep calm before smiling up at his aggressor. And, so, giving him at least an ounce of trust, I say nothing.

"Zan, Zan, Zan, baby, you gotta keep going to those classes," Quartz mockingly says. "Besides, if you throw us out, the next people asking these questions will have little silver badges and matching guns."

"You're talking out your arse. The hell do you know about the cops?" Zan demands, obviously undeterred.

"Well, I know they're looking for a brutal murderer, and I know he liked to frequent this place," Quartz says, giving his chin a scratch. "It only a matter of time before two and two are put together by the boys in blue and a warrant is drawn up. But, hey, if I figure this out before that happens, I'm sure it'll avoid some awkward questions for you and the boss."

Zan leans back away from the bar, considering the implications. His anger doesn't seem quelled, though he at least seems to slow it down for the interim. After a loud snort, he crosses his arms. I guess that means we're not being thrown out. That's sort of a relief, though my heart still pounds from the tension. The coyote pulls a five from his pocket and lays it gently on the bar for the bartender to take.

"Wild Fox, two fingers, straight," he says. "And get the lady a Palmer."

Zan doesn't take the money up. Instead, he leans forward and pulls a half-full bottle of whiskey from under the bar and fills a highball. The liquid wobbles when the glass makes contact with the bar. Then he pulls a hose and begins to fill a tall glass with lemonade and iced tea. He places it in front of me and then inserts, very gently, a straw.

"What do you want, Jackie?" Zan demands. "And who is this? Is she a cop?"

"Who? Hooves? She's nobody, Zan, someone I doubt you'll ever see again. Just think of her as my partner in crime," he says with a shrug. "Don't worry your pretty, little head."

Hooves? Partner in crime?! I fume at that, but keep quiet, I want to give him a chance to succeed, or hang himself. And I definitely appreciate being called 'Hooves', as if I can be boiled down to one defining trait. But, fine, he wanted me to do it his way, we're doing it his way. He's got to know what he's doing, right?

"And all we need to be on our way is an address," Quartz continues. "Just rake your brain, small as it is, and come up with it and we'll slip away. Gino will never even know we were here."

Zan leans onto the bar again, considering his options. His eyes turn towards the phone that he picked up before serving us. It sits silently, though I think he expects it to ring at any moment. When it doesn't ring, Zan grumbles and then looks up to us with only slightly less annoyance and disdain than before.

"Show him," Quartz orders.

I frown at being ordered around by him, but comply. This is actually going a lot smoother than I had thought it would. A little bit of me is sort of impressed. I fish the print-off of Joffer's driver's license and slide it across the bar. Zan takes it up and then pulls a small set of glasses from his pants pockets.

He studies the picture for a bit, his face not revealing what he's thinking. After a few moments, he snorts onto it and then puts it back onto the bar counter. The glasses disappear back into the pocket they materialized from.

"He's familiar, at least," Zan says. "He comes in at odd hours of the day. I think he works as some sort of deliveryman or courier or something. He seems clean, like he's always just come from somewhere important. Maybe somewhere Downtown?"

"Do you know where he lives?" I ask, feeling confident enough to speak.

Zan snorts and pulls at the goatee on the end of his chin.

"I don't know exactly," he says, his tone sounding honest. "I can ask some of the girls. He never sat at the bar, so I never spoke to him. Joffer, huh? Didn't know his name until now, honest enough. Give me a minute, I'll ask around."

Zan steps away from the bar and walks over to the telephone under the bar. After he picks it up, he turns his entire body away, so as to not allow us to try to read his lips. Quartz takes a slug from his drink while I don't even touch mine. I can't believe he's drinking. Then again, he's not a cop, and therefore not on duty. I guess a sip couldn't hurt. It's not like mine is alcoholic. Very respectful of the coyote, or maybe just cheap.

I'm actually glad I didn't say anything. Quartz has proven he can handle himself, which I'm sort of surprised by. I guess that trust was something well worth the cost. Thinking back, a pang of regret hits me, for treating him the way I have. But I feel it was fair enough at the time, and I'm hoping I won't be disappointed anytime soon.

"This is going well," I say to him after I take a sip, halfway emptying the glass. "I'm actually kind of impressed. If you were somebody else, I'd assume you were on the force."

"If I were prey, you mean. So, not bad for a predator, then?" He asks with a smile.

"No. No, not bad at all," I tell him. "Maybe I was wrong to distrust you. You have history here, I take it?"

"A lot of it. Too much of it," he says with a chuckle. "None I'd care to share, though."

I don't press the point, not that I have the time to. The bartender nods his head a couple of times and then hangs up the phone. Then he lumbers back to where we're seated. He still hasn't taken that five dollar bill that Quartz laid on the countertop. In fact, he's done his best to ignore it completely, as if accepting it were a message in and of itself.

"The girls say they don't know the guy personally," he says. "They just know he works all over the place, for some service, PadEx or Paw Tracks or something like that. Seems highly on the down low, if you catch my drift. Though they're sure he lives back in Happy Town. Are you satisfied?"

"No, not yet," Quartz says. "We need to know where he lives."

The bartender snorts again, becoming annoyed with our presence. It's beginning to look like we're reaching the end of our rope. But, unlike before, I try to keep calm. This isn't my rodeo, and jumping at shadows only makes mammals suspicious. Plus, I want to see how the coyote handles it.

"Has he delivered anything here?" Quartz asks. "Maybe there's some records?"

Zan shrugs, his arms now crossed, displayed the length and girth of his biceps.

"Wouldn't know, not my department," he replies, now trying to be as unhelpful as possible. "The only thing I handle is the stocking of this bar. If you want to know that, call upstairs. I doubt they'd appreciate me trying to track down your murderer."

Quartz doesn't immediately reply. In fact, it looks like the wind has been taken out from under his wings. To this, Zan seems satisfied and gives a grin. The coyote doesn't seem to give up, though, sucking down the remainder of his drink. It seems like we're going to have to press a little harder. And I know just the thing to do it, too.

"Show him something else," Quartz says.

I'm way ahead of him. It's actually a bit odd how police-like his methods are, albeit rough and unstructured. The photo slides from my pocket and lays gently on the countertop. When I turn it around, Zan looks down to it, but doesn't lean in to really study it. It's the one of Savannah's body, mutilated, as Joffer stands over it.

"That's his victim," Quartz begins. "A gazelle, who we think he may have met here. I'm sure the rest of your clientele would love to find out one of them was torn to ribbons after coming here."

"She was mutilated when he went mad," I add, feeling emboldened by his success here. "He tore her into pieces, possibly even started to eat at her corpse. We don't know why he did it, or how he went mad. All we know is that he did this in cold blood, and is now roaming the streets."

I don't actually think he started to eat her corpse. But I doubt Jackie really thinks they met here. So, I guess what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right? Intrigued, Zan leans forward and picks up the photo in disbelief. This time he doesn't put on his glasses, being able to see the blown-up 8x10 without any assistance. At first he glances over it suspiciously. But after a few seconds, that suspicion melts away into surprise. Then it becomes horror.

"And the only person who knows where he lives is in this building," Quartz says. "I'd tell the girls what you've seen, you never know who might be next. Could be one of them. And, hey, if you have to call upstairs, do it. And you tell them this is what you saw."

He puts the photo down onto the bar and then snorts, once again weighing his options, this time sans the anger. This time he comes to his decision in a much quicker fashion. Turning, he walks to the other end of the bar and picks the phone up again. Leaning onto the counter, he talks into it almost loud enough for us to hear. Then he waits, his head nodding away as somebody chatters on the other side.

And then the phone is hung up again, unceremoniously.

"Don't make me regret this," he says when he reaches us.

He takes a napkin from under the bar and begins to scribble onto it. After about ten seconds, he pushes it towards Quartz, who picks it up. He nods and folds it, pressing it down into his pocket. Then he looks back up.

"Thanks for your time," he says. "And thanks for the drink. Send Gino my regards."

"Just get the hell out," Zan mumbles, now just worried.

Zan snorts again and commands us to leave with his eyes. Quartz spins on his stool and slides down onto the floor. I follow him, after giving Zan a final cursory glance. He looks to me with only slightly less disapproval than he does the coyote. Then, I turn and begin to follow him out. When I catch up to him on the stairs, he seems drained.

"I'm impressed," I tell him. "I'm actually really impressed. You make me think you're a cop by another name. What's more, you actually pulled through. Who's Gino?"

"An old boss," Quartz says after a sigh. "Somebody who's hatred of me burns like the surface of a thousand suns. But we got what we came for, and without a fight. I'm also glad you kept your cool. Very savvy. Thanks for the trust."

He pulls the napkin out and hands it to me. Looking over it, I recognize the address and put it away. It's not too incredibly far from here, but it's in exactly the place I don't exactly want to go. Especially at this time of night, too. But, it's our job. Well, my job; it's my job to. Soon enough, we're back on the street, with the best lead I've had all night. Maybe this will be all over soon enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Act I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, the end of Act I. In this, we get to see the conclusion of our little investigation, and maybe it isn't exactly what we expected. I've been struggling to come up with the events that comprise the majority of Acts II and III, which I'm not entirely sure I'll move on to as the reaction here and elsewhere has been . . . lukewarm, at best. I'm not claiming I need a lot of praise (though I wish I could see my characters in the comic, haha), it's hard to find motivation. Also, the story has been grinding my stomach into paste and giving me anxiety the likes of which I haven't experienced in a long, long time. Though, I take it as a good thing as I actually care about this story, a lot. For those of you who have been following my little whatever-this-is, I thank you so much for your time! I'm hoping the next chapters will come to me soon and maybe I'll have something worthy of being posted sometime soon. Please, enjoy! :D
> 
> Premise: The year is late 197-something. Or maybe very early 198-something. It has been roughly 15 years, or maybe closer to 20, since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 9:

Happy Town. I've always thought that 'Happy Town' had to have been a mistake. And it sort of was a mistake. It was originally called Highland Terrace, back when it was being constructed maybe sixty or seventy years ago. But the residents around it and in it began to nickname it HT, which devolved into the derisive 'Happy Town' or, more infrequently, Happytown. The unfortunate moniker stuck, and by the time the first apartments and rowhomes were completed, the neighborhood was officially labeled Happy Town. And it is anything but.

I've maybe been through the edges a few times on my routes, but this is the first time that I've delved so deep into this broken neighborhood. The police rarely come here, and for good reason. The buildings crumble the further we go in, eventually becoming abandoned skeletons of their former selves. Businesses are all boarded up and most of the residential homes are in desperate disrepair. The shadows they cast make me uneasy, though Quartz doesn't seem to feel the same.

The address we shook out of that bartender leads us almost to the waterfront, to where the train tracks go over the narrow straight to Rams Island. It looks like this street used to be housing for longshoremen and dock workers when this was a busier part of the city. Now, it's mostly abandoned, with only one or two buildings having lights illuminating their innards.

"Pull over here," Quartz says, pointing towards the end of the block.

"Don't want to let him know we're coming?" I ask, beginning to trust his suggestions a little more since the Aries.

Quartz gives a curt nod, "A car like this stands out here."

And he's right. If the car is even functional at all, as we've passed by a couple of burned out husks on our way through the streets, it's most likely much older than mine, or in a miserable state, or both. The brakes give a shriek as I pull up to the curb and kill the headlights. Rain continues to pour down onto the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up.

What a miserable night.

We've parked at the peak of a hill, with the street descending towards its ultimate fate at the front gates of an abandoned warehouse on the waterfront maybe a mile out. With the way that I've parked, we are given a grand view of the prison complex that constitutes the little isle of Rams Island. Bright lights dot the harsh concrete buildings that vary in color from yellow to red to blue. Some even strafe back and forth. It's like looking at a depressing Christmas tree.

"That's where he'll go," I say, "Rams Island."

"The Zoo," Quartz says affirmatively, "either that or upstate. If he's lucky he'll go upstate."

He's right. Rams Island is known for its brutality, its callousness, and its low survivability. When I was still in college, and later when I was in the academy, I read that prisoners come out of there hardened by their experiences. Even those just being held for trial are apt to either commit worse crimes, or to come out mentally changed afterwards. But every time the possibility of reform comes up, it's lost in the political process and promptly forgotten.

"You been?" I ask.

Quartz glances at me, his gaze communicating a mixture of displeasure and offense, but he softens a moment later.

"No," he then says.

"You been arrested ever?" I continue to ask, more curious than anything else.

I honestly don't know, I didn't run any information on him back at the precinct. I guess in the struggle to find out who this Joffer guy is, the thought sort of escaped me. Any other officer most likely would've run a background on the animal who has been forced to be attached to your wrist for a day. I suppose I can find an excuse, though. I mean, there's a brutal murderer afoot.

"Come on, we have to go," he says, completely ignoring my question. "Don't forget your belt and badge."

The door opens and he disappears out into the pouring rain and swirling darkness. That coat he wears has definitely come in handy tonight. The collar is turned up high to protect his collar from the rain, but, even with it, I can see the sparks jump as he rounds the nose of my auto. I bet it would a thousand times more painful without it.

Killing the engine doesn't change much; the radio has been silent since our argument, over which I'm starting to have regrets. At least the dome light comes on to assist me in reattaching my utility belt. Huh, utility belt. That thought never really occurred to me. I guess a little bit of me always wanted to be a superhero. Well, I'm a crappy superhero now. It's a cinch to put back on, and I'm quick to get out into the pouring rain.

I don't bother to lock my car. We shouldn't be too long inside. And the worst thing that could happen is us losing this suspect because I had to fumble with my keys. Too many perps have been lost by officers over the dumbest things, and I'd like to not have my first major arrest marred by simple idiocy like that.

My hooves splatter in the puddles as I race across the dark blacktop. The fur on top of my head is soaked, my ears folded back to keep the water out, and my thoughts wish I would have remembered my cap when I left my crappy apartment this evening. Then again, I doubt it would have helped me much here.

Quartz stands in front of the building and peers in the window, making a cup with his hands around his eyes. As I approach him, he steps back and shakes his head. The window looks like it's completely covered in newspapers anyways. Somebody definitely didn't want to be disturbed. Then his eyes look around and see a sign hanging from the overhang above that reads: deliveries around back.

He brushes by me to see where it leads and I follow, glancing up the alleyway. I draw my flashlight out and click it on, giving me at least a small cone of visibility. I have it on for only a moment before Quartz glares back and shakes his head. He wordlessly mimes, 'no lights, he's here' and I click it off.

But in the short moment that I do have my light on, I notice a brand new car parked back the grass and loose stone covered alleyway. And when I say a brand new car, I'm telling you it was a nice car, something I doubt even I could afford on a sergeant's pay grade. It's a Lionheart Touring Sedan, brand new with white walls and a full metal roof. The chrome bumper and wheels shine in the light.

A courier can afford a car like that? Something definitely isn't right. I wonder if Quartz even noticed. He seemed more focused on the wooden steps that lead up to a door on the second floor. While seemingly unnatural, it does look like it leads to an apartment. The wood definitely looks worn enough to be.

He begins up the stairs and I follow just behind him, my hand naturally resting on the butt of my gun. After he takes a few tentative steps, the whole staircase seeming to groan under his weight, he stops. His fingers go down to the wood and he wipes something and tests it between his hands. Then he gives it a sniff and wipes it off on his coat.

"He's here somewhere; or was at some point," Quartz says.

"What is it?" I ask, looking for more of whatever he found.

"Blood," he solemnly replies, "and it's washing away with the rain."

"Maybe I should take point, I've got the weapon," I suggest.

Quartz doesn't argue, stepping to the side to allow me by. My tranquilizer gun swiftly leaves its holster as I move past him. My hooves almost slip on the wet wood below them, so I move very carefully with each step. The whole staircase threatens to fall down around us at any moment, shaking and groaning, but never does.

Lightning crashes above and I'm able to get a clear picture of the scene in front of me in that brief window of time. Streams of red-tinted water collect in every nook and cranny, streaming off the sides when a board isn't even. Claw marks dig into the stained, greening wood and at the very top, where the door opens to a porch, the entire banister has been pushed out and hangs precariously off the side.

The door at the top looks like somebody tried to bash it in but wasn't successful. It looks like they, assuming it was Joffer, threw their entire body against the metal door to no avail, then took a few swipes at it. He must have then turned his attention towards one of the second-story windows on this brick building and leapt off of the railing, breaking it off in the process.

The window has been smashed in completely, with large claw marks gashed into the old bricks below it. He must have dragged himself up and in successfully. Or maybe he fell down and tried some other place. It's honestly hard to tell in this low light, and with these weather conditions. As I walk over to the door, I try the handle.

It twists immediately and the door swings inwards gently under its own weight. I glance over to Quartz who surveys everything with great interest. Looking back, I begin to wonder if Joffer completely lost his mind. He bashed away at his own front door and never tried to twist the knob? What kind of psychopath does that?

As I step inside, my wet hooves finding safe purchase on the carpet inside, I try the light switch. While the switch makes several resounding clicks, nothing turns on. Again, I pull out my flashlight and hold it up. No longer able to alert anyone from outside, I flick it on and begin to look around. Quartz this time raises no sounds of protest and lights his own lighter as he steps inside.

"I'm going to check upstairs here, why don't you go look around downstairs?" I suggest to Quartz.

"Sure," he says. "He's gotta be here somewhere."

"Are you armed?" I ask him.

"I'm a predator. Compared to you, I'm always armed," Quartz says quietly, surprisingly without a hint of sarcasm. "But, yes, I'm armed if anything escalates beyond that."

Sweeping my flashlight along the open apartment before me, I see that I must be standing in some sort of combination kitchen, dining room, and living room. I also see a lot of blood soaked into every soft surface available, as well as pooled in the depressions in the kitchen linoleum, like a horror movie irrigation system. Well, he definitely made it inside.

"So, this guy murders his girlfriend and comes back home, somehow clearing a distance of, what, twelve blocks and nobody reports it?" I ask, mildly surprised. "Nobody notices a half-dressed leopard covered in blood stumbling angrily through the city?"

"Hooves, you don't get it," Quartz says as he passes through the kitchen, using his light to survey the piles of plates and appliances within. "It's the code of the street not to snitch. And with the animals that live in this neighborhood, doubly so."

There's that nickname again: Hooves. I'm not entirely sure why he's chosen it, beyond the obvious. Glancing down at my slender legs, I turn a flashlight towards them and then look away. I was angry before, but, I guess it kind of works. I've been calling him only by his last name, or just 'the coyote' all night, so I suppose we're even. Whatever keeps him talking, I suppose. What he suggests I don't dispute, but I have to ask. I've never been even half friendly with anyone who would answer.

"Why, we're trying to protect these folks," I say, waving my flashlight around the living room area. "We're not here to harm them; we're just trying to do our best to keep the peace."

The television in the corner is on, though it only displays the hold message that plays overnight. It's late enough that even Johnny Cattleson isn't on anymore. I see the brightly colored face of my watch and see it's closing in on three AM. Gently illuminated by the static-covered screen, the living area seems untouched, even if everything seems very heavily used and not remotely new.

"That definitely isn't how most of these people see it," Quartz replies. "And even if you did go to them to ask, they'd lie."

"Why?" I ask him honestly.

"For the sheer joy of it," Quartz says as he moseys through the dining room, where the table and chairs have been flipped and sullied. "Suspects lie because they have to. Witnesses do it because they think they have to. Everyone else does it out of fear, and to uphold the unstated principle that 'under no circumstances' do you provide accurate information to a cop. Preds don't trust cops because cops don't trust preds. We think you'll sell us out the moment it suits you, so the only winning move in that game is not to play."

"Is that why you wouldn't give anything to the detective?" I ask him while moving towards a door separating off the back of the apartment from the front.

"No. Well, partly. Hee was just an asshole," he replies with a chuckle. "Plus, he was going about it the wrong way. It was the wrong tone. He didn't even want to build any trust, just skin me alive. Starting off an interrogation with a threat to be buried under Rams Island wasn't helping his case."

Before reaching the door, I see some pictures hanging on the wall. Pointing my flashlight to illuminate them as I walk by, I see that they're family photos. It looks like they consist of our perp Jacob Joffer. In one he's young, in his school bests. He's not wearing a collar. This must be from before desegregation. In the next he's with people I assume are his parents. Then he's older and wearing a collar, too. He doesn't seem so happy anymore. Finally it's just him, around college age or maybe a little older. His parents are gone, but there's a girl with him, though he seems to be forcing the smile.

Maybe he didn't have a happy life and lost his mind from it? Is that all it would take for somebody to just break down? That can't be it, even my father wouldn't buy that.

"Then why did you talk to me?" I suddenly ask and sweep my flashlight around to him.

He pauses at the top of the stairs and turns to look back at me. The appearance on his face when he glances back to me is a mixture of surprise and confusion. His free hand rests on the doorway at the top of the stairs where his claws absentmindedly tap. His tongue appears as his lips seem to stumble over what he's saying. Then he looks away.

"Because I--I liked you," he says quietly, sheepishly, as if worried by my reaction. "And because I think of every cop that I've ever met, you could probably sympathize with me the best."

"Why?" I ask him, surprised.

His eyes look to mine again, his look piercing.

"You're a woman trying to join a boys-only club," he says. "And the longer you push, the more you're gonna get kicked in the face from every direction. That's every day being a pred."

The words surprise me, they do. But I think they surprise me because they come from a source I would never have expected them to come from. I've faced a lot of misery ever since I left the academy. My father says I only got put in as a beat cop because of political pressure coming from city hall, though that's just the lawyer in him. I always wonder if I keep my job because I'm one of their best performers, or just because I'm some pawn in somebody's political game of chess.

I go to answer Quartz, but by the time I come out of my daydream, he's gone. Sighing, wishing, surprisingly enough, that I could talk to him some more, I turn around and look to the door beside the wall of picture frames. I'm only a couple of strides from the front door, but already I'm getting the feeling that I shouldn't be here. Gently, I turn the knob on my radio on, ready to alert a response unit at a moment's notice. That's a risk only because it emanates the quiet chatter I've become used to which stands out in the dark silence. Then again, we haven't exactly been silent here.

The door, having been already ajar, swings open gently and without any noise. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls a moment later, illuminating the room for a brief moment. To my right the window that was broken lets in streams of light. The curtains that hang around it have been torn to shreds halfway down and blow in the wind from the storm. Glass and fabric litter the hardwood floor as rain spatters on the sill.

Stepping inside, I sweep my flashlight from the right and see blood everywhere. Paw prints are very easy to see here, stamped into flooring like wax seals. Water also pools in little puddles almost everywhere. A table in the corner has been smashed in, its contents poured down onto the floor as if Joffer didn't know it was there when he climbed in. As I move my flashlight around, surveying the room, what I see is sort of jarring.

It's a normal bedroom. And I mean that honestly. Knowing almost nothing about this person, I can only extrapolate their life from his crimes. The people that Quartz knew only knew the person by sight, not anything about them. But seeing a normal animal's bedroom, it's sort of unexpected. No weapons, no crazy string theory wall, no drugs, or booze bottles. It's clean and clear of clutter. There are even simple paintings between the windows, some old posters hung up to cover the off-white walls.

A radio stands in the corner, old but well kept. Some sports gear is stashed along the wall as if it's famous equipment being displayed. To my left, on one side of a wide, sliding-door closet is a dresser with some pictures and a lamp on top. On the other side is a full bed, neatly made and not disturbed. A rug sits in the center of the room, soiled by blood and rain water.

Following the tracks, they lead all around the room including out into the main room, as if he's looking for something that he can't find. But I don't see them exit anywhere, at least I none that are visibly discernable from any others. Looking down towards the dresser, I see something that does standout: a uniform. Walking slowly across, conscious to avoid stepping on any evidence, I get close enough to lift with the edge of my gun in order to read it.

"Paw Print Flowers and Courier Service" it says in bright, colorful letters, plus an address and phone number underneath. A matching hat sits on top of the dresser and a pair of nice slacks hangs along the footboard of the bed to complete the uniform. A delivery cat did all of this? That's completely unreal. Not only that, but he's able to afford an extremely nice car, able to take out a girl that isn't a pred and who's dating a high-level insurance adjuster at the same time. Something here just doesn't . . .

Something creaks behind me. Standing up, I gasp and turn around and see that the room is completely empty. A low growl comes from somewhere nearby, but Quartz isn't anywhere to be seen, and is most likely too far away to be heard if it were him. Slowly sweeping my flashlight around, I gasp when I see a figure standing in front of the closet.

Catching myself, though, I realize it's just me. The closet has a mirrored face on one of the sliding doors. It features a big, bloody paw print smearing down the far right side. The noise has disappeared, but there's only one place in this room it could possibly be coming from. I aim my tranquilizer gun over my flashlight and begin to move towards the slightly ajar closet door.

I nudge my gun forward in order to use it to slide the door open. When I do, it reveals the slouched form of Mister Jacob Joffer. He's sitting with his back to the rear wall in the tattered remains of his finest clothes. The sound I thought was a growl turns out to be him moaning in pain. His eyes look dazed, cloudy, or maybe almost lifeless. He's covered in blood that includes some of his own pouring from cuts on his face and torso. Looks like Savannah got some swings in before she went down.

What's insane is that he's still wearing his collar. He never got it off. He fought and killed another animal, fled on foot back his home many blocks away, and not for a moment did that collar come off or stop him. That has to be impossible. The collar looks like he's been kicking and pulling at it, though. Regardless, it isn't shocking him now. Its status light blinks weakly, like its batteries are completely drained.

As if confused as to what is even going on, he looks up to me unknowingly. Whatever madness struck him has obviously passed on. Lowering my arms, I walk forward and kneel beside him to check his vitals. He doesn't fight me as I lift his arm up to feel his pulse. It's erratic, as if he's having a heart attack. Setting my gun and flashlight down, I pull up my radio.

"Dispatch, this is Officer Brooks, we have located Jacob Joffer at his home in the five hundred block of South Palm Avenue, please send response team," I say into the microphone. "Be advised, perp is seriously wounded and disoriented, an ambulance is urgently required, over."

"Sit tight, Officer Brooks, help is on the way," the dispatcher replies after an uncomfortable pause.

"Oh, g-g-od," Joffer suddenly stutters, almost incoherently. "I'm cranking again! You have to run, I'm cranking!"

"Mister Joffer, you have to stay still, if you move around anymore, you'll only worsen your condition," I tell him.

Unfortunately, I'm unable to really give him any aid. Cops like me don't carry around any medical equipment and there's nothing here I can really use. At least that I know of.

"Mister Joffer, is there a first aid kit somewhere around here?" I ask of him, loudly and clearly before turning to yell. "Quartz, I found him! He's up here!"

Suddenly Joffer grabs my shoulders and jerks my head back to face him. Some of the crazy I saw in those photos is back, but this seems more like desperation than insanity. What I see is fear, pure, unadulterated fear.

"You fool, you don't get it!" He screams. "I'm cranking; you have to run, you have to save yourself, you have to--to--to . . ."

Suddenly he frowns and his arms go limp. He seems to become very quiet, as if he's passed out with his eyes open. Then his collar begins to beep, slowly at first, then rapidly. Leaning down, I go to check his breathing, but I never even get the chance. His face turns back towards me, his teeth bared in hatred, the look of murder coursing through his frame as his pupils dilate, becoming narrow holes. His collar shocks him with whatever force it has left, but that only makes him scream and growl.

Reflexively, I tumble backwards as the leopard, now very clearly no longer the one I was talking to moments before, begins to thrash about. That collar continues to shock as hard as it can, gunning for death or submission, whichever comes first. Howling in pain, he claws and rips at it, but it doesn't budge. When the big cat twists around to leap at me, I realize my gun and flashlight are still at his feet where I put them down. Footsteps pound through the house somewhere nearby.

Lightning flashes and thunder rolls. I scream in fear as the leopard pounces from his hiding spot. Then I throw up my arms to protect my face, the only thing my white tail instincts will allow at the moment. But another growl joins the chorus of the damned and Quartz appears. With all the force he can muster, he intercepts the much-larger feline mid-air. They crash onto the ground to the nearside of the bed, biting and scratching at one another, neither scoring any hits.

Regaining my composure, and remembering my training, I begin to crawl towards my gun as quickly as I'm able to. The leopard growls and screams as Quartz digs his teeth into the side of the murderer's neck, drawing even more blood. Then the coyote is screaming as claws shred his overcoat and blue suit in retaliation. Quartz flies through the air, kicked away by Joffer, just as I reach my gun, and slams down onto the floor with a loud, bone-crunching yelp.

The leopard wastes no time licking wounds and turns to face his opponent, teeth shining in the low light, his eyes wide and wild. Then he begins to pace to and fro, claws ready to kill. But by the time he does, Quartz is already up onto both sets of paws, his tail puffed and his hackles raised. His own collar begins to spark up and then shock, but he seems to persevere with no more than a tensing flinch, adrenaline most likely keeping him going. It's not like the last time, when he wasn't expecting it. The worst he does is almost lose his stance for a moment. I can see his clothes are shredded from the feline's talons, and he's bleeding from cuts on his cheek and neck.

They both seem to gasp for a second. Then the leopard jumps and then they tussle once again, with Quartz screaming out this time as loudly as he can, then yelping in desperate pain. I finally snatch up the tranquilizer gun and fire it off two rounds as quickly as the gun allows and as soon as I have a shot. They whiz into the leopard's exposed back and inject their sedative load into his skin.

He howls and swipes at his back, but is unable to reach where the two darts are. Angered, he settles for attacking its source: me. Slamming down onto all four paws, he wheels and barrels in my direction, making me freeze in place. But before he's able to reach where I'm lying on the ground, Quartz dashes up from the side and sinks his teeth into the cat's exposed neck once more, dragging him onto the ground.

This gives me enough time to fire the remaining rounds into the cat at much closer range, expending the remaining four darts house in the rotating chamber of the gun. Joffer's eyes, bright and yellow as the sun and fueled by pure rage, seem to go soft as he stares at me and fights his canine attacker at the same time. Then his struggles become weaker and weaker before he collapses entirely. It is only when he's finally gone into a drug-induced coma that Quartz lets free his quarry from his teeth and hits the floor with a thump.

Quartz rolls away from the fallen form of his adversary, shaking as the collar continues to try to shock him to death, his extremities thrashing about in excruciating pain, desperate to escape. Still shaken from the experience, I rush over to him and draw a small key from a pocket inside my shirt. Not a small silver key like the ones that cuff suspects, this wide, flat key unlocks pred collars, something we're never supposed to do except in a life-or-death emergency.

When the collar flops off of his neck, he goes limp and gasps, looking up at me. The entirety of his face is saturated with either blood or tears or both. His hand rises up and touches my face, and his lips struggle to make words. But, he isn't able to say anything. Moments later, he just rolls his head to the side and begins to gasp. Blood streaks down his face and neck now, matting his fur. A wide bite mark covers his left shoulder where Joffer bit in as hard as possible, almost reaching bone. Deep, crimson blood pools below where he lies even just moments later.

"Quartz? Don't go, Quartz, don't--" I ask him, almost begging, feeling my eyes go hot. "Jackie?"

He doesn't respond, using what strength he has left to look up to me with existential fear, gasping, before he simply slips into unconsciousness. I feel my heart break as those eyes roll gently shut. Taking up my radio, I hold the button down and begin barking into it as loudly as possible, desperate to get my savior help. I'm not entirely sure what the words are that followed, but I'm sure the dispatch girl does. Already sirens were wailing in the distance, probably the first time they've gone this deep into old Happy Town in a very long time. Jackie's head rests in my lap the entire time, his chest rising and falling weakly.

The officers that arrive sweep the entire property for any other dangers. They don't touch me when they find me, drenched in my own tears, holding Jackie's head up from the floor and making sure he continues to breathe while my nose is buried in his muzzle, deep in his fur. Nobody questions why he has his collar off, or why I'm nuzzling him. Most are just at awe at the big cat, at the amount of blood that covers everything, at the damage in this tiny apartment.

When the police wagon shows up, the officers carefully cart Joffer out. It takes nearly six officers to finally do the job, with him being dead weight and all. It screams away to whisk him to a medical holding cell at the Central Precinct Downtown. And when the ambulance shows for Jackie, I watch as they gently take him away on a stretcher.

I can't go with him, though I want to. There's work to do here, even if he possibly saved my life. The paramedics take his collar with them, but they don't put it back on. The medics seem to be a lot more considerate when dealing with issues like this. I'm thankful for them, too, even though there are many officers here who object.

The best I can do is stand at the window and watch them go, to somewhere Downtown.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first act ends, another act begins. A murder has been solved, or has it . . . ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I haven't uploaded anything in so long. I've just been . . . feeling very, very sick. Not physically sick, but sick in a way. I've been struggling with the story, mostly because I'm hoping that at some point, I can change some things and make this more than just an internet thing. Seeing a novel come out like this and then worrying about whether or not it'll ever be successful is . . . well, it's kind of painful. I can't really explain it, I hardly understand it myself. But, either way, I'm just trying to get everything to come out right. As you guys will soon tell, I'm getting further and further away from both the film and the comic, and for good reason. I love whomever it is that is writing the comic, but, I'm writing a completely different story. For those of you who have been reading this, I thank you profusely. It's only because a handful of you want to see this that I even continue to bother. Well, that and the hope that it would be possible to publish this as a real novel, though with some heavy tweaking. If you have any feedback, I'd love to hear it. It keeps me going, lets me know people WANT to read more of this, and that I'm not doing it for my own sake. It also helps me not feel so alone. So, for those of you who wanted to continue, I welcome you to Act II (or something like that). Enjoy!
> 
> Premise: It is August, 1979, and it is nearing the 20 year anniversary since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 10:

I spend the rest of the night on site, though not with Captain Whitebuck. Lieutenant Longenecker, who works in the detective's bureau, is who takes charge. Like most of the other officers here, he is stunned silent by this entire situation. From the cat that somehow slipped back into pure, unadulterated savagery, to the blood and destruction we find at his home. I also get the distinct feeling that he's surprised that I've pulled this off. Maybe he's lost a bet. With these animals, that wouldn't even be remotely surprising.

The officers do a quick sweep of the entire building where Joffer and his family seems to have lived. They turn up little next to nothing. There is nothing to explain why, or even how, this strange, yet otherwise unassuming animal could just go criminally insane in the way that he did. But in the end, it doesn't matter. We caught him quite literally red-handed.

The ground floor seems to have been at one point a store, more specifically a butchers shop. As a prey species, and a deer, I find the eating of any kind of meat to be disturbing, but for many of the animals in this neighborhood, it's just an everyday fact. Obviously no mammals are murdered and sold by the pound in butchers shops across the city. But fowl, seafood, and sometimes reptiles and amphibians are sliced, wrapped, and readied for market in places like this one.

But, it doesn't look like any of it has been touched in a decade or more, though, suggesting that Joffer never worked here and that, while a murderer, he isn't the serial killer they're looking for Downtown. It might just have been his father's shop before he left his photograph. It takes until just before six am for the crew to finish up the documentation they need to do here, at least for now. Then everything is cordoned off with wide, yellow tape and we report back to the precinct.

I spend most of the morning, of what remains of my shift, filling out paperwork and filing it away neatly. Other beat cops in the bullpen congratulate me for the bust, on the risks that I took, and on the payoff. Some comment on the blood on my uniform, in my fur, telling me how brave I must be to take down a dirty, prey-killer like Joffer. Even Bullworth and Oxley give me cool space instead of instigating something. While it isn't praise, I suppose it's better than nothing.

It should be the best moment of my life, to have finally proven myself to these mammals. But the truth is, my stomach ties itself into a thousand knots inside my abdomen, and my mind goes a million miles a minute. I desperately want to see Jackie again, to make sure he's ok, and to thank him profusely for everything he's done. Even just knowing he's alive and recuperating would be acceptable right now, but nobody has any answers. No one seems to care. The only comfort I get is to twirl the evidence tag on Jackie's camera, looking at his name and signature.

It's just before nine am when I get a page over the intercom to report to Captain Whitebuck's office. As I'm walking through the office, my case file in hand and Jackie's camera around my neck, I get smiles and thumbs up from every direction. Ginny gives me a broad, bucktoothed smile from the front desk, knowing that the rumors have died and the narrative has changed around here, and I smile back, her joy contagious. I'm no longer Jane Doe, anonymous female beat cop, but Jane Brooks, hero officer who took down a dangerous perp.

My pride is matched only by the hollow ring of it all.

Going upstairs, I pass by the detective's suite, where I'll be transferring soon enough. Many of the detectives aren't there right now, since it's late enough in their day shift that most are handling the cases they're working on. But a few hang about, dressed in dingy suits or flashy street clothes. Their semi-private cubes are all stacked with papers that twitter and flicker with the motion of the ceiling fan. On the wall directly opposite one of the open entrances, a tack board displays cases that are open, being investigated, and closed in color-coordinated marker. A lot of red, I see.

A bit of excitement flutters in my stomach, that I'll soon be up here, finally playing in the league I've been batting for in the last few years. Captain Whitebuck's office is at the end of the straight hallway that leads back from the stairs, his door hanging wide open. As I approach, I hear him humming and wait in the doorway. I know he's paged me, but I have no idea how I should approach him, as he will soon be not only my boss, but my commander as well.

The captain's office is huge, not only for his species. It's almost as big as my bedroom at my apartment. The detective's bureau gets a lot of respect in this precinct and beyond. Becoming an officer here is seen as a fast track to Assistant Chief, Chief, and possibly Commissioner, even in one of the worst precincts in the city. So that kind of respect comes with its perks, like his oversized office, personal furniture, and plush decorations.

Aside from the desk and chairs constructed from fine, exotic woods not grown in the city, his office comes complete with broad bookshelves filled with law and enforcement texts, a display bureau, fine lighting, and an alligator leather-upholstered swivel chair. His desk and most of the walls are lined with personal photos, police merits, and medals for distinct service in the name of the city of Zootopia. There's enough gold, silver, and bronze here to host the Animalympics in the city for decades to come.

The only thing that stands out is the fact that most of his photographs feature only himself and maybe his parents through the ages. There is no wife or any kids. I've never pried into the lives of any of my fellow or commanding officers, but it's a known fact that single cops seem to attract the worst luck. I can attest to that, but I doubt it's due to the lack of a gold band on my finger. Captain Whitebuck is a mammal dedicated to his position, something I respect.

Whitebuck stands at the back of his office, in front of his display case. The backdrop of the case is mirrored, which he uses to primp himself. He's wearing his dress blues, something we only do when we graduate, retire, or attend functions where fine dress is a requirement. His gold ropes hang from his left shoulder, beneath the insignia on his arm. His peaked cap covers his hornless head, all the while he hums and finishes tying his tie.

"You requested me, sir?" I say, announcing my presence.

He continues to hum cheerily.

"Ah, yes, Officer Brooks," he says cordially, still humming. "Or should I say, Detective Brooks?"

I smile at finally hearing someone saying it aloud, my stomach settling down for the first time in hours, my cheeks burning with pride. The captain turns and walks towards his desk, his fingers still deftly working at the full Windsor knot below his chin. His gray fur is clean and combed, and I get a distinct perfume coming from him. Or, that could be the potted flower sitting on his desk.

With a free hand, he tugs a stalk from the plant, which is green with short, funnel-shaped white petals that slowly fade to a gentle lavender at the top. It cracks and he places it gently into the front pocket of his jacket, so that the tightly wrapped flower juts out only justly. It has a sweet scent, something that almost makes my mouth water with desire. I'm not sure what it is, but I could live around it forever.

"When I went to bed last night, I had very little hope that you would fulfill your bargain, Detective," the captain tells me honestly, though still with an air of praise. "While I do not doubt your skills, I found the task Sisyphean. Not only had you few leads, you were dragging around some flea-bitten predator like dead weight. Imagine my surprise when I awoke this morning to your success."

My smile broadens at hearing him acknowledge my success, and its unlikeliness. But I get a bit of a sting hearing him talk about Jackie that way. Then again, wouldn't I have described him as much just a few hours before? The captain finishes tying his tie and then turns his eyes down towards me as he beams with pride, and those thoughts dissipate. I have been waiting for this moment for years, I'm not going to let anything ruin it.

Slowly, he reaches out with a hand and opens a drawer at the top of his desk. Then he withdraws a small, black box. My stomach leaps into my chest at its sight and I feel my arms and legs go numb. I can tell my tail is standing up as hard as possible, and that my ears are at attention atop my head. Turning the front towards me, he cracks open the front and reveals a stunning gold shield. I've finally arrived.

"And I am nothing if not a mammal of my word, Detective Brooks," he continues. "As of this moment, you shall be presented with the rank of Detective, Grade 3, as you requested. While we shall do a more formal ceremony at the end of the month, as is customary, I shall grant you your promotion and all the rights and responsibilities that go along with it. You will report to Lieutenant Longenecker, who will give you your first assignment on Monday. Congratulations, Miss Brooks."

Taking the badge from its felt-topped bed, the captain gently pins it to my chest, where I hastily removed my silver patrolman's shield moments earlier. Afterwards, he gives a starched salute, which I return in earnest. Then he beams a smile and offers his hand to shake. While I have to reach up, I shake his hand with honor, wondering if he can feel my enthusiasm and pride zapping through his palm. The box returns on the top of his desk with an unceremonious thump.

"Thank you so much, sir, I won't disappoint you," I announce loudly, looking down to my badge.

The captain slowly turns and walks back towards his bureau, as he returns to tidying himself up for whatever he has planned. His eyes alternate between appraising himself and looking to me in the mirrored back of his display case. The look in his eyes is almost predator-like in appearance, in the way that he looks over me; but also fatherly, or in the way a professor appraises a star pupil.

"Oh, I doubt you will, Detective. I will be informing the panel of Assistant Chiefs, the Chief, and possibly the mayor herself of your successes last night," the captain tells me happily. "The ZPD is always looking to promote the most qualified officers to positions of authority. We're always looking for good earners. Keep up your good work and I think you will find yourself rising in the ranks much quicker than you expected."

Rising in the ranks?! I barely contain a loud gasp that wells up inside my throat.

"The mayor, sir?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"Oh, yes," he replies, running a brush over his cheeks. "I'll be speaking with her this afternoon, as she is giving a speech at city hall to answer questions about the murders that have happened city-wide over the past few months. As one of the only captain outside of Precinct One who has offered up a successful arrest of a predator turned savage, I will be giving an introductory speech for her. I hope you'll watch."

"Of course, sir," I tell him as if commanded to.

He chuckles, as if the answer was already expected. He smiles to himself in the mirror and then sighs loudly, contently. Suddenly he becomes quiet, his chuckles fading away into nothing, not even a petering out. The shadow he casts from the open blinds widens and grows as he stands tall. Then he turns around, his brow hardened, and he towers behind his desk. His shoulders are square, his hat perfectly straight, that tie perfectly beneath his chin.

"I hope you understand the risk I've just taken for you," the captain informs me firmly. "Allowing new detectives into the bureau is a long process, and one that I take very seriously. While other precincts simply have officers pass an exam and meet certain educational requirements, joining the bureau here in Precinct Twelve is no easy task. And while it is extremely rewarding, it comes with risks for all involved, especially its commanding officer. So what I'm asking you, Detective Brooks, is: Can I trust you?"

Can he trust me? Why would he be asking me this, didn't I just prove myself last night? No, no, that's not what he's asking me right now. He's asking me something completely different, but what exactly, I don't know. I feel my jaw slacken and my lips open as I stumble for words, the right words, the ones that he's looking for.

"Trust me, sir?" I ask him, slightly frightened.

"Yes, Miss Brooks," he explains, nodding his head forward, his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. "The bureau works slightly differently than what you would be used to as a patrolman. It's small, intimate, personal. We're family here, and we like to keep it that way. You protect your fellow detective, and they'll protect you. And at the end of our watch, we all go home, safe and sound. Understand?"

"Y-yes, sir, of course, sir."

I, nervously, nod and then stiffen up, committing to my answer. The captain leans his head back slightly and smiles. He chuckles again and leans back away from the desk. That shadow disappears, and his form, once cast in shadow, returns to the bright blues and golds of his uniform. His medals shine on his chest, so many years of excellent service. I feel the weight release from my shoulders, knowing that I've said the right thing, the first in quite some time.

"Fantastic," he replies. "I'm sure you'll be one of the best shields we have. But for now, I would suggest you take some time for yourself. Take the weekend off, you've earned more than that. Although, I hear you rarely take days for yourself, even working days you aren't assigned to. We like that kind of dedication here, and you'll find it will be rewarded handily."

"Yes, sir, of course, sir," I reply, beaming yet another smile, waving away whatever just happened.

"You'll be able to pick up your new issue equipment down at supply, where you'll also return your old uniforms. At your convenience, of course," the captain informs me. "Now, if that's all the questions you have and all of the introductions you require, you are dismissed."

He gives a wave of his hand, as if he's now 'done' with me. At first, I do as instructed, turning to leave. But, before my hooves can cross the threshold back out into the quiet hallway, I stop. There are way too many questions swirling about in my head, and to not ask them now would be a sin unto itself. So, I turn and look back to the captain, who has turned to look to the window, enjoying the rays that are coming in on a bright morning after a dark night, even with clouds in the distance.

"Just a few, sir," I pipe up. "What will become of Mr. Joffer?"

The captain hums at my question; though not the happy go-lucky hum he had moments ago. This is contemplative, as if what I've asked requires a very tactful response. Maybe he wasn't expecting to have to answer such a question to me, assuming I would know as I'm in all the same systems he is. At least, I think I am.

"The leopard is being held at a special facility downtown," Captain Whitebuck explains, in a somewhat dismissive tone.

"What will happen to him?" I follow up.

"He will be held there until he is deemed worthy to stand trial, like the others who have lost their marbles in recent weeks," he explains, his tone becoming a bit more exasperated. "It's unlikely he'll see in the inside of a courtroom anytime soon. He can no longer speak, he's walking on all four paws, and he's completely detached. No defense lawyer wants to defend a savage like that, and the DA's office is refusing to touch him. At this point, I can only assume he'll spend the rest of his days in a padded cell; for his protection as much as ours."

"Are they trying to understand why he went mad, sir?" I continue to question.

Finally, the captain turns. He looks to me with growing suspicion, as if I'm not supposed to ask these kinds of questions. Stepping forward, he retrieves a small briefcase from the floor and pops it open in the free space atop his desk. He begins to place folders, papers, and other documents within. All the while, he looks over me, his ears flicking about beside his hat.

"What's your curiosity, Detective?" The captain questions, his tone no longer jovial, one eyebrow raised. "Not thinking of going forensics on us, are you?"

"No, sir, I'm merely trying to understand what would cause an otherwise unassuming predator to go insane," I explain, the camera rustling around my neck as my arms move about. "It is our job after all."

"Ah, but you've already hit on the cause: predator," the captain explains as he lowers a thick, bound presentation into his case. "For his kind, it was merely just a matter of time before he slipped back into baser, more savage instincts. Spending your whole life walking around creatures he could only perceive as tasty morsels, well, let's just say that he was just a bomb waiting to go off."

'His kind'? The briefcase snaps shut and the captain stands it upright, the brass and bronze shining in the afternoon light. I've never heard the captain talk this way. Those kinds of words would only sound familiar dripping from Detective Sergeant Ashe's lips, though without half of the refinement the captain possesses. Then again, this is possibly the most time I've ever spent in the captain's company. And while a bit of me does agree with him, what he's saying isn't fair. What if we were talking about Jackie?

"But, sir, animals don't simply go mad like this," I try to explain to him, conjuring up whatever counterpoint I can. "He was terrified when I found him, and completely lucid!"

"A pause in the storm, Detective, I assure you," the captain replies dismissively, his eyes flaring slightly.

The captain lifts his briefcase and then steps around the room, his heavy hooves tromping on the hardwood floor. I back out of the door as he flicks the light switch off and then watch as he locks his door shut. The stenciling of his name on the window glitters in the light, drawn in metallic black and silver. His rank and insignia hang above it in pure gold.

"I would think so, too, sir, but, he was warning me," I continue to explain as he deposits his keys into his pocket. "It's like he knew what was happening, but had no way to stop it. I don't think he just went mad, I think something drove him there. He kept talking about 'cranking'."

The captain looks down to me with an odd look on his face. His eyes seem to question everything I say, though not as if I'm making it up, while his ears stand straight up, listening to every syllable that rolls off my lips. The rest of him seems hard, strong, tough, like an ice cutter plowing through the arctic, nothing will slow him down.

"You think something, or someone, drove him savage?" The captain replies, a bit incredulously. "And what exactly would have caused that, Detective Brooks? Maybe the kitty wasn't getting enough milk in his diet."

He turns away while rolling his eyes and begins to walk down the busy hallway, almost brushing by me. A bit taken aback, I turn and quickly race to follow by his side. When we pass by the open detective's suite door, the noise from within dulls down, as if the animals inside are listening to the drama taking place right outside. The captain does his best not to look at me, even though I'm basically at his heels. He's also moving towards the open stairs as quickly as he can without running.

"I don't know, sir," I reply, feeling a bit defeated. "But I'm sure there must be, there always is. If I just had a little bit of time to follow up, I could do it over the weekend, to focus on my new work next week. Maybe I could go back to Savannah's apartment, or go to Joffer's place, I could run some--"

Suddenly the captain comes to a full stop near the top of the stairs, making me stumble to not bump into him. Then his form swings about like a truck, those golden chains jingling and jangling under his shoulder. He looks down to me, now truly angry, as if I've stepped on an artery. The look of praise, of watching a favored student succeed, is completely gone. Now all I see is frustration, accusation, and his strong will. I feel myself shrink.

"No, Miss Brooks, there won't be any need for that," the captain commands, his arm reaching out to the bannister just ahead. "You got your mammal, officer. We caught him covered in the victim's blood, savage as a primal, after attacking an officer in his state of delusion. He was surrounded by misery and poverty, teeth and claws. An explanation for what sparked it isn't necessary. You're a fine officer, and you'll make a fantastic detective. Don't screw that up by sticking your nose where it doesn't below. Remember that your job isn't to prosecute, just apprehend. Case closed."

My hand trembles a little, the one that holds my casefile. My ears are folded back as hard as they can and my tail is sunk, hidden between my legs. Even above the dull roar from the open bullpen below, I can almost hear Captain Whitebuck's eyes screaming their anger into my form. I'm at a complete loss, confused by the commander who was just lavishing me with praise moments before. I begin to feel like a fawn being punished by her father for being naughty. So I say nothing in response.

Seeing that he has finally gotten his message across, the captain turns and begins to descend the stairs at a more metered pace. I follow him only to the edge of the top step and then watch him go. I don't understand. He isn't interested in finding a cause to this? Wouldn't that be his job to, to understand the cause of crimes in order to stop them before they occur? Or is that just what I want to do?

Joffer would be the third predator, assuming I'm counting correctly, to go mad this summer and then kill. So far, no one knows why. And I'm not talking about regular murderers, or even cold, calculating serial killers. I'm talking about teeth-and-claws, blood on the floor, completely insane monsters. I have a firsthand account, too, and maybe insight that no one else has. So why isn't anyone interested? Maybe I'm just looking for closure. Closure? Oh, crap, Jackie.

"What about Jackie Quartz, sir?!" I yell to the captain from the top of the stairs, the camera shaking its reminder around my neck.

"That coyote is no longer considered to be in the custody of the ZPD, Detective Brooks!" The captain yells back without turning. "He can consider his deal fulfilled! Good day!"

Then the captain disappears, plunging into the morning light outside. Ginny, her shift all but over as well, tries to flag the captain down, but he straight up ignores her when he marches by her desk. As the door swings shut, the noise of the precinct taking over once more, I can't help but feel completely unsatisfied. At least I'm free to go see Jackie no. I suppose I should turn in my stuff before I leave.

I give up my silver badge, but keep almost everything else. They tell me to wash my uniform before turning it in, after seeing the filth I'm covered with. So from there I go to the hospital, St. Animus, downtown, leaving my copy of my case file and Jackie's camera in my car. While a bit of me wonders if he would even want to see me, I go inside anyways. I tell myself that I'm only going to check in on him, to make sure he's ok, but I end up staying way longer than I had expected to. Maybe that's what I had really planned, at least subconsciously.

When I arrive, Jackie still isn't wearing his collar, which I don't find surprising. Doctor's offices, hospitals, and anything medical in general don't allow predators to wear collars during any kind of procedure. And Jackie's procedures have been quite intense. Dozens of stitches, an IV drip, several blood transfusions, and a cocktail of medicine have all been administered, all courtesy of the ZPD, of course. I find him in a hospital bed, where he's been stripped and is wearing a hospital gown, and isn't conscious, though he seems snug in his covers, and he sleeps peacefully, which calms me. His administering physician tells me he's been unconscious since he arrived, but should be ok soon.

After everything that happened, the only thing that is worse for wear is his shoulder, which Joffer tore to shreds, though deep scratches and bites can be seen on his face and neck. I can assume the gown and blankets cover even more on his torso. The doctor tells me he's been talking in his sleep, most likely due to the heavy narcotics he's being served to suppress the pain from his injuries, as well as flush out any infections he may have picked up.

He seems to say a lot of phrases while I'm there, making me think he's having nightmares. They include a lot of names, but the one that surfaces most frequently is 'Anne'. The doctor, an old goat, jokes that I must be Anne and leaves with a smile. The urge to take his hand to calm him down strikes me, but I don't, not feeling so bold. Thankfully, he seems to calm down, his face relaxing. So I just take a seat on a large, faux leather-wrapped recliner and wait.

Two nurses, one a civet, the other a donkey, make their rounds several times over the course of my stay to check out their charge and to change out medications. I'm able to get some good sleep on that chair, probably some of the best I've gotten in quite some time, though I don't know why. The only noise comes from the monitors that keep watch over Jackie's vitals, and the television hung from the ceiling in the corner, which I turn on to clear my thoughts. Nothing like daytime drivel aimed at housewives to make you stop thinking so hard.

Just after noon, the captain finally makes his appearance on the steps of the City Hall, flanked by officers from precincts across the city on one side and officials from the mayor's office on the other. His introductory speech consists mostly of typical statements, including a call for 'unity and strength across the city as we tackle the spate of predator murders citywide' and 'to trust in the brave, selfless warriors who stand between a glittering new decade and the descent into madness'.

Then the mayor herself comes on. Dawn Bellwether, now nearing the end of her first time, though every political commentator in the city experts her to be reelected this November, is an odd woman as politicians go. She wears bright colors, often yellow and green, that her thick, purple glasses do not accentuate. The words I'd best describe her as are awkward, gaudy, and impressively likeable. And her statement can only be described as boilerplate. Most of it is a call for 'renewing the trust between City Hall and the ZPD, to promote a new era of stability and cooperation' and 'to not allow fear to grip prey homes, from the Burrows, to Tundratown'.

But then she goes on to blame the predators who have descended into savagery, though that accusation is tactful. She claims it's only nature at work, that those who wear the tame collar can only be trusted so far, and that trust like that is easily lost. Like my father always said, we can trust them in our city, but we can't trust them with the freedom it promises. She calls for updating the collars, making them more sensitive, to eliminate any known 'variables', whatever that means. Calm and civility out of one side of her mouth, anger and accusation from the other. Typical.

She even claims that some predators are developing an immunity, which is insane, as if someone would develop an immunity to being shocked. God knows Jackie hasn't. It's safe to say that the CAEP Act is dead in the water, if it ever even makes it a committee vote, let alone a floor vote. As she finishes up her speech with 'Zootopia will prevail', I begin to lose interest. But the reporters on the scene see blood in the water and begin to ask the hard questions. Who's to blame? What can we do? Are we safe? What are you going to do?

The mayor seems to revel in it all, getting a chance to pad her ballot box come fall, and I click off the television before burying my head down into the chair so I don't have to listen to any responses. I feel too guilty. My mind spins too fast to stop and I almost feel sick. So I simply try to block it out, everything that's happened, and delve back into sleep. I'm not sure exactly what time it is that I wake up, but I only resurface as I hear stirring in the room. Tearing my head up, I see Jackie kicking his paws under the blankets and his arms rustling at his pillow.

Without a second thought, I'm up out of the chair and am standing at his bedside. His shoulder is wrapped in heavy gauze, now stained red, and his face is pockmarked with stitches, some of which run out of sight beneath his gown. When he opens his eyes, he seems terrified, confused, so, without even thinking, I grab my right hand with mine and squeeze it gently. An action I don't understand, but feels good anyways.

He looks to me, shocked, and there isn't any recognition. He just seems disoriented, and stares at me like I'm a stranger. But he doesn't pull his hand away. For a few seconds, his bright, blue eyes travel around the room in a dazed manner. But then something must come back and he begins to pack. So, I squeeze his hand again and finally he looks to me, his ears standing straight up. His brow rises when he finally realizes where he is and who I am.

"J-Jane?" He asks after a heavy second, making me smile.

"It's ok, you're ok, you're in the hospital," I tell him, relieved. "It's all over now."

"It's over?" He asks, confused.

I nod, "Joffer's downtown, in holding. You just missed the press conference at City Hall a few hours ago. The captain's honoring your deal; you're free."

With this revelation, Jackie lays his head back, sinking it into the pillows, and draws a deep breath, his eyes held shut as his mind whirrs. I free his hand and rest my palms on the cool surface of the crisp, clean sheets. When his eyes open again, he stares to the ceiling and then begins to take stock of himself. For him, everything must be in order at least until he gets to his left shoulder, and then he groans and throws up his hand to grab it. I intercept it and lead it away so he won't pick at his bandages.

"Jane, w-what happened?" He asks, looking to me for any explanation.

He really doesn't know. Maybe it's the pills or something. Or maybe it's just the shock of everything.

"You fought Joffer in his apartment," I tell him calmly. "He took a huge bite out of you, but, you won. I tranquilized him and then you passed out. I thought you were a goner. I can't believe you don't remember that."

"I honestly don't remember everything very clearly," he replies with a shake of his head. "The night becomes so foggy. I do remember the fight, but, it doesn't seem real. It feels like a home movie I watched as a pup."

"It's just the medicine. You'll start to feel better soon, after we get some food in you," I tell him reassuringly. "But, it was all real, and it's all over now."

Suddenly Jackie reaches up to his neck, his arm jerking as if he suddenly remembered. He feels that his collar isn't on and looks to me, surprised. It seems he's just now remembering the very end, what happened. At first he's speechless, those ears standing as tall as I've ever seen. His lips gently part and those eyes grow wide, showing just how surprised he is. But hiding underneath is something else that I don't comprehend.

"You--you took it off," he stutters, astonished.

"Well, of course I did," I tell him kindly. "You would've died had I not."

"And you're not afraid of a predator being loose?" He asks me, his eyes wide, brow high, ears back. "You weren't afraid I'd hurt you? Oh my God, I went absolutely savage. I fought like an animal, tooth and nail, I could've turned on you and--and . . ."

Suddenly, he starts to panic, as if he can't control what he's feeling. His chest heaves and his eyes look around for something to cling to. I want to say something, but I don't have the right words to comfort him. So, instead of answering, I lean it and give him a very gentle hug, very conscious of his injuries. He becomes quiet and calms, then he only gingerly reciprocates my affection after a few moments.

When I pull back, he looks to me surprised, and then smiles gently, sheepishly, that fear and anxiety dissipating. He smiles in a way that I've never seen before, on him or pretty much anyone else. It's genuine, and it's truly happy, in a way I can only vaguely relate to. Then he lies back into his pillows and takes a cleansing breath, whatever mania now passing.

Then he reaches up and rubs at his neck, feeling the fur move freely under his paw pads. With my own hand, I reach up and touch his neck as well, giving it a ruffle of my own. This makes him gasp in surprise, his eyes locking onto me. I stop, fearing that I've gone too far. But, he doesn't say anything. He simply sighs and relaxes back into his bed, allowing me to continue to rub his neck as he does as well. Afterwards, we sit in silence for a few, awkward seconds, his hand resting near mine on the bedspread.

"Thank you," I say, barely above a whisper, and very solemnly.

"For what?" He asks.

"Saving my life."

"Aw, it's nothing," he says, shaking his head. "You'd have done the same for me."

"No, it's not that, really," I tell him.

I try to think hard about what I'm going to say next, but, everything's going too fast. I have so many things that I want to say, but I can't get any of them straight. So I take a deep breath and try to keep it all simple, to say just the bare minimum. You know what you need to say to him, Jane, you've been thinking about it all morning, ever since he almost died in your lap.

"I guess I was so focused on my job, on my promotion. I'm a detective now, see?" -I point to my new badge, which he gives a crooked smile, like he's happy but confused at the same time--"I guess I wasn't fair to you. I did some things I regret now. I treated you like a . . . like a . . ."

"Like a predator?" He interjects, though his tone isn't insulting or mean.

I look to him and feel my ears lie back. Shame wells up inside my stomach, but, tempers when those icy blue eyes look to me. He's not blaming me, but, I still feel bad. He's right, though. I treated him like shit, and only because he wasn't a prey species like me. I don't know why I did that, but he didn't deserve that, he deserved better. At least a blank slate to prove himself. He started off with a handicap, which is something I should know about very well. At least, I thought I did.

"I'm sorry," I finally say firmly, not really knowing what else there is to say.

Half of me expects him to berate me, to sling the insults and misery I gave to him right back. But he doesn't. To my surprise, he takes my hand gently, this time of his own accord, and gives it the same, understanding squeeze I used to calm him. At least, as hard as his wounded shoulder will allow him to. I look to it and feel a bit of cool relief run through me. When I turn my gaze to his muzzle, he's a slight smile pulls at his lips.

"Hey, you're still the most decent cop I've ever had to deal with," he tells me, cutely, a bit playfully. "I guess I saw you differently, too. You were just a badge to me. In some ways, I was using you the same way you used me. I saw you as a possible route of escape and not much more. Do you remember that kind, open, understanding officer in the apartment that night? I'd like to see more of her around."

I purse my lips, not sure how to take that compliment, assuming it was meant to be one. But, I squeeze his hand in response and try to give him an honest smile.

"Well, you remember that smart, personable coyote in the club? That's who I want you to be more like. Not the miserable prick on the el-train," I tell him, verbally giving him a playful jab in response.

We both laugh afterwards, him giving a pained laugh and coughing, me trying my best to not sound so damned awkward.

"But, I'm glad you were there, that you did what you had to save me," I say and then sigh. "I wouldn't have chosen anyone else."

"But, why did I have to?" He asks. "I thought we were looking for some insane predator off his collar. Instead, we found a very angry, laser-focused killing machine looking for a pincushion to put his claws.

I look to him and shake my head. I keep wondering the same thing. I tried my best to get some answers out of my commander, but he didn't seem very interested. Everything is so odd, so confusing, and I don't have any answers. At least, I don't have any official answers, just my own suspicions and hypotheses.

"He wasn't off his collar," I tell him. "It was still very much around that neck of his, though it looked like he tried his best to tear it off. And when I found him, he was docile, normal, cowering in his closet. That's why I didn't shoot him, I thought whatever happened had passed. He even spoke to me, kept talking about 'cranking'. But, after a few minutes, his lucidity seemed to dissipate. I guess it was just a pause in the storm."--To use my captain's phrase--"He became enraged, savage again. And it only happened after his collar began to shock."

"But, it's over right? You still got him," Jackie reminds me. "It's done, it's over."

"Yeah, over," I mutter to myself, unsure.

But that's just it. I get the feeling that we're missing something here. Like we've put together a thousand piece puzzle, but we're still somehow missing half of the pieces. Everyone is insisting that it's done, but there's this huge chunk in the corner that isn't there at all and everybody is acting like I'm crazy for noticing it. I guess there's really no reason for me to think this way, but the thought is still there. It's like we understand the 'what', but not the 'why' or the 'how'. He is right, though, Joffer is behind bars. Well, a padded door. He's being held downtown to receive treatment. What happens after that is beyond me; functionally, not intellectually.

The doctor returns not long later. The old goat tells me how lucky Jackie was to get away with as minimal of injuries as he did, and tosses it up to a mixture of skill, Jackie wearing such heavy clothing at the time, and dumb, blind, stupid luck. I'm not sure how much information the police shared with the hospital, but these people are smart. My mother is a doctor, and she is unnaturally good at sniffing out bullshit.

By about four o'clock, Jackie becomes restless, insisting he doesn't want to stay. Even though he's still shaky on his legs, he manages to climb out of bed and dress himself in the remains of the clothes they brought him in with. His overcoat is torn completely to shreds and is thusly discarded. The old suit of his is similarly ruined, being torn, blood-soaked, and threadbare. But he wears it because there's nothing else. The clothes at least look recently cleaned. Maybe the staff took the liberty to clean it. It didn't really help.

The nurses don't stop him from getting up, though they do keep a very sharp eye on him. With me helping him, as there was no way I could tell him 'no', they don't intervene. At the very end, we refill his pockets with everything he owns. It includes his wallet, a set of car and house keys, a nearly-empty packet of Buckys and that odd, circular lighter, an arrowhead necklace, an antique gold watch, and a notepad like mine. It also includes a set of brass knuckles and a white-handled stiletto switchblade, which he puts away with a coy smile and I, unlike what I would have done just twelve hours ago, ignore them.

Finally, in order to leave, he hast to put the collar back on. It almost breaks my heart to have to put it back around his neck, but, he doesn't fight me. I can see the torment in his eyes when I put it under his chin. The white, gray, and brown fur mats down under the black canvass strap, lined underneath with a mesh of thick, steel prods I didn't know were there. Then it beeps on and the deed is done. Jackie doesn't blame me, but I hold his paw anyways and he tries to smile, to make me feel better.

Not long later, he's demanding to leave. His IV and medicines have all but run out and he's anxious to get home, possibly to get back to work. The medical professionals put up only a paper-thin argument as to why they should hold him overnight. But the doctor, that kind, old goat, signs his paperwork to release him and then I'm pushing him out in a wheelchair.

Hospital regulations, they insist.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm back! We're now well into the rising action of Act II. Our main plot is going to take a bit of a back burner for a few chapters, now, as we develop our main characters, but we'll get back to that in a bit, I promise! From here on out, the chapters are going to get a bit longer, more like chapters 9 and 10. In this chapter, we'll be exploring some of our characters' backstories. This is actually the third iteration of Act II that I've written in almost four weeks, and I'm thinking that I'm starting to get things right. To those of you who are still following, I'm glad for it, and I'm hoping I'm going places you all want to see. If it's not too much to ask, rate, comment, favorite, recommend, give me your thoughts, and all that good stuff. Welcome properly to Act II, I hope you all enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Premise: It is August, 1979, and it is nearing the 20 year anniversary since Zootopia has ended forced desegregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.
> 
> Link to Zistopia, for those interested, set to the very beginning. Go ahead, they need the views and your support!: https://zistopia.com/page/1/one-of-those-cultures

Chapter 11:

"Here, just-just let me down here," Jackie says.

He moans as he slides down onto the couch cushion, the whole piece of off-blue furniture seeming to depress underneath his weight. I sigh, glad to no longer have to support him, and rub my shoulder from the workout. But I smile; just happy that I'm able to get him home safely, even though he fought me the entire time. Why, I'm not entirely sure.

When we left the hospital, he didn't want me to drive him home. He loudly proclaimed that he was fine, that he would take the el-train or something, even if his clothes were ruined by blood and claws. That changed quickly when he took a nose dive onto the sidewalk after becoming lightheaded. The pills, he claimed, were to blame for it, not losing a lot of blood nor not eating anything in 24 hours.

Then when we get to his apartment, above a little shop that, while well-kept, seems to have been disused for many years, he doesn't want me to come inside. At least he seemed to put up less of an argument this time, claiming he doesn't want to be seen with a cop coming up into his house, especially with the neighborhood he lives in.

Yes, he lives in Happy Town. Though, for his credit, he does manage to live in a pretty nice part of it. The brownstones of lower Downtown give way to the brick and stone low-rises of what was supposed to be Highland Terrace. And with that divide, the businesses segue from high end retail and fine dining to chain stores, mom-and-pop shops, and decaying diners. While many businesses here remain empty, I see no boarded up buildings, burned out cars, or heaps of garbage like the waterfront.

What I also notice is a good mixture of pred and prey walking the streets. Wolves, large cats, raccoons, and other characters I still look twice at rub shoulders with long-necked giraffes, horned ungulates, and even white-woolen sheep. With the cost of living rising in the nicer neighborhoods, and not every animal willing to move out into the Burrows, Happy Town has become a low-cost option, it seems.

The last argument arose when I was just barely through the doorway, though it was hardly an argument. He said he didn't need my help going into his own house, even up the flight of steps. I should be with my friends, he said, or at least go home to get the rest I've earned. I just waved it off, saying that a citizen in need required my assistance, and even if I'm going to become a detective, it's still my sworn duty to help. I amended my statement to specifically include predators like him. Jackie just grumbles.

The business on the first floor looks like it was once a barber's shop. The windows are dark and dirty, and the sign above is covered by a large drop cloth. So the only way I can be sure is by the grime-covered barber's pole that sits motionlessly above the door. Jackie lives above it, behind a door off to the very left of the façade of the building. Below a 'closed' sign on the frosted-glass window reads, in very fine-stenciled lettering, 'J. Quartz, Detective Agency'.

On the second floor, I steered him through a stereotypical pulp detective's office, complete with wooden desk, rotating corkboard, a wall of filing cabinets, and a constantly-rotating ceiling fan. On the other side is the main room to the apartment, where I stand now. Not wanting to go to a bedroom, he has me walk him to the couch, where he now lays with his arms up over his head.

"Thanks, Hooves," Jackie says genuinely.

I smile at the nickname, now feeling a bit honored by it, "You're welcome. You didn't need to fight me all the way here, though. I'm just trying to help you."

He grumbles and moves one of his sleeved arms from over his eyes, revealing his face. Even with the stitches and the night we've both been through, he looks good. The fur has covered up most of his wounds and, despite the state of his clothing, he doesn't seem bad off. His tail wraps around his body and covers him like a makeshift blanket while his one leg hangs precariously from off the couch.

"I know," he replies. "You can probably take your leave now, Jane. I won't hold you up any longer. It's been a pretty long twenty four hours for the both of us and I bet you want to go celebrate now. I mean, you have my card if anything happens . . ."

Jackie then covers his face with his arm again, those piercing blue eyes disappearing behind the arm of a suit which, without his overcoat, seems too big for him. I smack my lips, looking down over my slender frame. Behind my back, I can feel my tail give an unsure switch. Light-colored wood flooring sprawls across this room, the same as in the office. It comes to a halt where it transitions into linoleum in an open kitchen area at the back of the apartment.

"Not exactly," I tell him, sheepishly. "I'll probably just go home and laze about in my apartment, hoping to avoid the noise coming from across the hall, or the cigarette smoke next door. And hope the twenty messages on my answering machine delete themselves."

His eyes reappear as he shifts about on the couch a little, not exactly sitting up, though his legs do descend towards the floor.

"Not a lot of friends, huh?" He asks quietly.

"That's putting it lightly," I reply while giving the back of my neck a rub.

"I can understand not making a lot of office friends, if Detective Asshat and Officer Douche Canoe are any indication. But, you surely have childhood friends, or school buddies, right?" He says, as gently as he's able to.

I give a noncommittal shrug before looking away from him and to the large room around us. The living room, or whatever this is, consists of the couch Jackie lounges on, as well as a small coffee table at my knees, an older-looking tv, some small sideboards, or buffets as my mother would call them, and a very large piano. It's an upright, of course, though the wood is a deep, dark-colored one that I can't name.

Behind the couch, across a small open area that serves as a hallway, are three doors that lead off to unknown rooms. But between the wider spaced ones is a console radio and record player. It's sides are stacked with albums, 45s, even some older gramophone records. From here I can't tell what exactly each is, but, they seem older, and I recognize some of the colors. A lot of jazz, big band, early rock and roll. No punk, no disco, no metal. That sort of surprises me, I didn't take Jackie for such an old soul. Or maybe I'm just not very observant. What else have I missed?

The kitchen is small, and only includes the necessities. It's older, heavily worn, but well loved. Everything is well cleaned and clear of clutter. The refrigerator hums away to itself peacefully. In the back left corner is a small dining area where four chairs ring a wooden table, covered in decorative things that obviously haven't been moved in a decade. It makes me think of my mother. Well, that, and the small curtains hanging above the window behind the sink. The other thing I notice about this room is that it has a lot of pictures for somebody who lives alone. I'm not sure if he's sentimental or what.

"Hey, I'm not trying to offend you, here," He says when I don't respond.

I sigh.

"I know. Most of my friends drifted away when I got my job," I tell him. "But, that's pretty normal, right?"

"Sure, but, don't you have anybody?" Jackie asks, now sitting up a bit more.

I just shrug and shake my head. Oh, sure, I have my folks, but, there's a reason I moved into the city and out of the Meadowlands. I should probably talk to my brother, but, well, that's a can of worms all on its own. I guess I've been so work-driven over the past couple of years, and school-driven before that, that I let my social life vanish. Not that I feel bad about it, there wasn't much of one to lose. It's just more of a fact of life. This is the first 'weekend' I've had off in a long time, and, honestly, I don't know what to do with it. Well, other than get stuck with my thoughts.

"Yeah, I guess it is. Well, I mean, I guess you can stay here for a bit," Jackie says sheepishly. "I have to change. Make yourself at home."

Jackie rises up onto his paws, shakily at first, and then squeezes by me to go to a room at the front of the apartment. When he's closed the door shut behind him, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding in. I haven't been this nervous in so long. Jesus Capybara, I haven't done anything but work in so long. It must be obvious. It is to me.

"What about you, do you have a lot of animals over?" I ask him, loud enough to hear through the closed door.

I begin to move about the room, wanting to get a closer look at some of the photos, of which he seems to have a lot. Along the back wall, between two closed doors is a set of photos that hang from faded wallpaper. They're family photos, of Jackie's family. One is just of him, maybe around the age of ten or twelve. Like Joffer, he isn't wearing a collar in this one and seems relatively happy.

The next one down is a family photo of him at the same age, with his mother and father. His father is a large man, slightly bigger than what Jackie is now, and much broader at the shoulders. His fur is colored the same as his son's. He even has the same piercing blue eyes. The only difference is he's missing a chunk of one of his ears. Jackie's mother is a petite coyote, with delicate lines, and a slender form. Her eyes are a dull green and her smile is mischievous and alluring.

The last photo is, like Joffer's, another family photo. But, unlike Joffer's, Jackie's father is still in this one. Jackie himself is older, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and has his collar on. While he doesn't seem unhappy, his look is one of anxiety, of forced happiness. But his parents still seem happy, his father beaming in a new suit, his mother in a bright green dress. No girls, though. I'm assuming he's single.

"Not really," Jackie replies, a thud coming from the room. "Outside of my customers, I don't have people into my flat often."

"Then I must be really special," I say and waltz around to look at the photos on the piano.

"Oh, insanely special. Cops don't willingly come to this part of town. So having one that wants to be around, well, that's one for the records," Jackie says, only half sarcastically. "Last night was probably the first time an operation happened that close to the water. But, I suppose what happened was an unusual occurrence. Not every day that you have to take down some animal gone nuts."

"Yeah," I reply, standing tall to look at the photos.

They're not of the family this time. Well, at least, they don't include Jackie. His mom and dad are in them, they're out some place familiar, dancing. It must be pretty old, they're not wearing collars, and they're dressed to impress. The last of the large-framed ones, on the very right, is of a stallion that I recognize, but can't name. He's in a tailored suit, and he's in a barber's shop shaking Jackie's father's hand.

I take the photo down and look to his face as closely as I can. He must be some sort of entertainer, and a famous one at that for me to notice. But his face just isn't ringing a bell. If he's a musician, I'm more pop-oriented. While I give her a lot of crap, I like Gazelle. I don't mind LABBA, though most of their stuff is too saccharine for my taste. And when I was younger, I liked the Beagles, and the Birdees, though I'm not proud of that. I bet I still have some of their 45s, somewhere.

Glancing over, I see an end table right inside the door leading into his apartment. It has an answering machine on it, as well as a small lamp and a place for a photo. The little drawer makes me think, if Jackie has a picture hidden that he put away. That just reminds me of the murder and I begin to think again, about work, about a case that's closed now.

"About last night?" I shout out, unable to slow my mind.

"Yeah?" He responds.

"Do you get the feeling we're missing something?" I ask him. "Like we put together a table and we've got screws left over, even though you're sure you followed the instructions?"

The door clicks open and Jackie stands in the doorway. He's wearing a pair of nice, off-white slacks held up with a black belt. A deep blue button-up covers his torso, the arms rolled up past his elbows, which he's securing now. Even through the shirt, the bandages over his shoulder are visible due to their bulk. His tail swishes between his paws, swiping at the floor.

Compared to him, I must look like a mess. Police issued black pants, equipment belt, off-blue shirt and vest, old tan college jacket, new golden badge, sure, but, I bet my fur is in a state.

"Didn't consider it, Hooves," he says calmly, buttoning up the remainder of his wide-collared shirt that almost shows off his shock collar. "I don't really think like a cop. So the way I look at it is we have the photos, the customer's got them, and then we were paid. The job is complete."

"Then why don't I feel like it is?" I push at him. "I know we did everything we were supposed to, and city hall and my captain gave their victory speeches. But something doesn't sit well with me."

"We got the guy, Jane, what more is there to it?" Jackie asks.

"I don't know, but there has to be," I reply, looking up at him, my mind racing over my captain's response to my questions earlier today. "Don't you think about 'why' or 'how'? Why did he go nuts? How did it happen? Is he sick? Is he deranged? Why kill someone he loved? Why go home?"

"Not really," he says with a chuckle. "I guess it's not really my job to. That's for the customer to figure out. I just provide the evidence."

That almost sums up how police officers work. We don't ask why anything is happening, we just do our jobs. Like the captain said, 'apprehend, not prosecute'. Maybe as a detective, that'll change. I look up just as he pads towards me, seeing that I've been looking at the pictures around his house. Half of me expects him to be upset by me snooping around his apartment, but he just turns the frame to get a good look at the photo inside.

"I'm sorry, I was just looking and--"

"No, that's fine," he says. "Honestly, Hooves, you know nothing about me. Probably about as much as I know about you. I trusted you enough to make that deal. I trusted you enough to fight off a psycho. So, looking around my place should be fine. That's Frank Persano with my dad."

The name finally clicks and I exclaim, "Ol' Blue Eyes?"

"Yeah," Jackie replies. "My dad said this was the best moment of his life, when Frank Persano, his idol and my namesake, walked the three blocks from the fence to my father's barber shop to get a style. That was in 1959, just before the fences came down. Twenty years, now. They say he was the one that brought them down, too, despite being a horse. Just sang 'em away."

He lets free the frame and turns to walk back towards the couch. His paws seem surer under him now and he strides about with ease. But I can tell he's still lightheaded. He couldn't have eaten since I found him yesterday. When he reaches the couch, he falls over the arm and lies, sinking into its form, with his tail and gray paws sticking out at me. Then he lets out a loud sigh, like he hasn't been able to sit down in ages.

I place the photo back into the dust-free spot from whence it came. Then my fingers drift down to the keys and touch a few of them. The white is made from some material I'm not familiar with; bone, possibly. They strike hard and loud, perfectly in-tune, which surprises me.

"Do you play?" I ask, curiously.

"Oh yeah," he replies. "That's my instrument. Did you know every coyote has a song?"

"'Every coyote has a song?' No, I don't think I've ever heard that before," I reply, incredulously.

"Well, sure," Jackie says, rolling over on the couch to look at me. "Foxes scream for a mate. Ever hear a fox find his true love? It's adorable, they yell each other's names. Wolves howl to find their mates, to find community, to find one another, even if animals think they're dumb. But coyotes don't group, we're solitary, and we often come from big, wide, empty nowhere places where music carries. So we sing. And every coyote has his song."

"What's yours?" I ask him.

He just chuckles.

"We don't work like that, Hooves. We sing for our loves and only our loves," he replies and splays out onto the couch. "Plus, I don't have the band for it. I don't know, maybe you'll hear it one day. Start guessing. How do deer find mates?"

Touching the keys again, I make a tinkling noise and hum at the question.

"I wouldn't know," I say quietly.

"What?"

"I said your answering machine is blinking," I redirect.

"Oh, ugh, go ahead and give it a press, then," he replies.

Stepping back, I do just that. The little black button on the wood-grained box depresses under my finger. Through a plastic window on top, a little tape begins to spin, allowing the light alerting me to a new message to turn off just a moment later. It gives an odd little squeal, like mine does, before clicking once again.

"You've reached the J. Quartz Detective Agency. I am not in the office at the moment and am currently working on an important case. If you would like to engage my service, please leave a message after the tone," Jackie's voice reads out solemnly.

A loud tone beeps and then there comes the sound of somebody fumbling with a phone.

"Hello? Oh, hello, my name is Diana Fangmeyer. My husband, he--he disappeared three days ago," a woman pants into the phone. "I think he's gotten himself into something he doesn't understand. I can't go to the police, I don't know what they know. I called three other people who turned me down before I found your ad. You're my final hope. If you don't help me, I fear the worst. Please, please, call me, my number is--"

"Well, isn't that strange," Jackie says from the couch.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of good, old fashioned character development while the main plot takes a back burner for a few chapters. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back! We're now starting to get into sole character development. For those of you who are in this for the action, the adventure, the film noir and police drama, don't go too far, we'll be back at it in chapter 16! But for now, we're going to explore a little of our characters' backgrounds, and make them a little more mammal than I and the story have allowed then to be. I'm also trying to make the story a little more personal, as you'll get a taste of the future to come for both Jackie and Jane's backgrounds, and how important culture is in this, and our own, world. I'm trying to keep ahead of the work I post by about 5-6 chapters, which is accurate as of the posting of this chapter. And I can promise you, the next two chapters are some of the best I've penned so far, at least in this Act! For those of you who have been following, I thank you so much. The feedback I get makes continuing to write a little bit easier, especially when life kicks me in the teeth. I know the story has gotten pretty far away from being a fanfiction, even though it started out more so. I did that more-or-less on purpose. So, while a little of the premise and a little of the setting is cribbed from Zistopia and Zootopia, I'm hoping you'll find something completely new here. Anyways, thanks so much for reading, please contribute what you can, I love hearing the feedback, and I hope you'll enjoy this and the chapters to come!

Chapter 12:

Strange is right. The animal that called is in hysterics when Jackie calls back. She claims she's seen shadows snooping around, says that she's being followed. Strange cars circle the block and her phone rings at all hours of the day and night, only to hang up when she answers. Jackie tries to calm her down, but she won't buy it. She wants to meet, before late tonight, before something happens to her and she disappears or goes mad, too.

"Like the others."

That strikes me, that she thinks she'll go mad. Half a dozen or more predators have lost their marbles in the last couple of weeks without much of an explanation, three becoming killers. Word coming through the grapevine at work guesses it to being a mixture of it being a hot summer, an election year, and social strife bubbling up from the bottom. The captain definitely wants to toss it up to that, especially when I offered him the arrest I did. There have been no official statements, though. Sure, the mayor has blamed predators phasing back into savagery, but that's hardly an explanation.

I know there was this brutal one up in the Rainforest District a couple of days ago. A black jaguar pulled apart a couple of bodies, including one they found in his house. The response was swift and brutal, but they got their mammal. I'm not sure what they did with him after that. Probably took him back to the same holding pen Joffer has ended up in. It was recent enough that I didn't get to read the report, just heard about it on the news, so I don't even know who made the arrest.

Despite being in his condition, Jackie begins to suit up to go to work. I can't muster the strength to try to stop him, even feigning concern for his injuries, because if I were him, I'd be doing the same thing. Duty calls, I suppose. He puts on that watch of his, snapping it onto his left wrist. Then he goes to clean up his fur in the small powder room just inside his apartment, across the main entrance from the piano.

"Take me with you," I argue as I stand in the doorway to the powder room, my hands moving around passionately. "You can't go to work alone like this. Just an hour ago, I was picking you up from the sidewalk. If you were to get into any trouble, I don't know how you would survive. Plus, I think there's something bigger going on here. I don't have all the pieces right now, but something just isn't right. And I think I might get some answers if I come along. And, hey, I've got all the skills to back you up! I've got--"

"Hey, hey, calm down, Officer," Jackie says with a smile while not looking away from the smudge-covered mirror. "You can come."

I'm stunned into silence, if only for a moment. Jackie chuckles and brushes out the matted fur around his face and neck. Then he splashes some water up, dampening his gray and white fur. Then he shakes his head to throw the water off.

"You'd just let me come?" I ask, incredulously.

"Oh, Hooves, I don't think I'm 'letting' you do anything," Jackie says and smiles into the mirror to check his teeth. "You were going to come regardless of what I wanted. I can see it in your eyes. Plus, your ears standing straight up and that tail giving a salute tell me you won't let this drop."

Suddenly realizing how I look, my ears drop and my lips purse. But he is right. I wasn't going to let this drop. My nose has picked up on something that my brain just couldn't ignore. At least I don't have to cut a deal with Jackie like I do with almost everyone I work with at the precinct. My tail begins to relax when that thought strikes me: I don't have to bargain with him.

"Yeah, yeah, I was," I tell him, discombobulated as I let go of the argument coursing through my mind. "Anyways, what do we have to do?"

Without that argument, I'm at a loss. Not only as to what to say, but what to think. Jackie gives his reflection a wink and then turns towards me. Backing out, I watch him cross the room to where his old suit jacket is thrown on the couch. His fingers rifle through the pockets and he begins to transfer their contents into his new clothes.

"Well, first of all, you need to change," He tells me. "When somebody calls and says that they aren't going to the police for a reason, it's probably best if you don't show up in uniform."

I gaze down at the clothing I'm wearing and realize that I never changed while I was at work. Then again, I usually don't in the morning. My uniform getting dirty isn't something out of place, but I'm covered in a lot of the same blood, dirt, and sorrow that came with last night's escapades as Jackie's old clothes were. It probably wouldn't hurt to stop off at home, or back at the precinct to get the clothes in my locker. I'm not sure which option is less palatable.

"And I wouldn't mind getting something to eat," Jackie continues. "The address the customer gave me is here in Happy Town, but only just inside it near the riverfront. I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten in a while, and my fridge is empty. Plus, I'm not a hundred percent sure I could feed you."

"Because you're a carnivore?" I ask him, though not mean-spiritedly.

"No, because that fridge is emptier than Dawn Bellwether's promises. And besides, I'm an omnivore, like all canines. And my favorite foods happen to be the pastries my mother used to make," Jackie says, taking the final things from his pocket. "Does that bother you, me eating meat?"

He saunters towards me, his brass knuckles and stiletto knife in his cupped palm. My teeth grind seeing them, but I hold my tongue. No, your use of illegal weaponry, that bothers me. But, I guess he has to have tools of the trade as well, even if they're not exactly 'legal', so I try to relax. Jackie seems to notice my disapproving look and quickly puts them away, into his back pocket.

"A coyote does have to have his tricks," he says with a nervous chuckle.

I smirk and roll my eyes.

"No, it doesn't bother me," I answer his previous question. "I know how the world works; I'm not one of the delusional types. Deer mostly stick to grains, fruits, and vegetables, anyways. We'll stop off somewhere I know on the way. It's across the street from where I live, so it'll be quick. I'll treat."

"Oh, ugh, Hooves, you don't have to--"

"No, no, I do," I insist. "Just think of it as a thank you, for everything,"

Jackie just sort of smiles, looking down at me with a face announcing that he doesn't know exactly what to say. So, like what I'd do, he avoids the topic.

"Great, then we'll drive to the customer's house afterwards," Jackie awkwardly says and walks towards the front door. "I guess you're driving again, unless you want me to."

I shake my head. Driving, I do not mind. My apartment is on the edge of eastern Downtown, just before the transition into the Canyonlands biome across the river. Deer can survive pretty much anywhere, but I'd rather keep out of the hot biomes across the river due to their skin-melting heat, the Rainforest District and the Marshlands for their humidity, and Tundratown because of how unnaturally cold it is. Even though I trained for them at academy, I won't go home to a biome I can't stand. Finally, I stick out of Happy Town for the reason most prey do: an innate fear, which I'm not proud to admit I have.

After Jackie's done primping himself like the captain, we drive through the outskirts of the financial district Downtown in my car. Jackie picks the radio, since he's riding shotgun. The station he picks plays a mixture of Rat Pack music and older R&B, which I'm no longer surprised by after seeing those records at his place. I don't mind it because it's familiar to me, but Jackie really likes it. When I ask, he says it was his parents' favorite, his father having met his mother at a dance hall after the war. Then he let his talent flourish from there.

"We had all kinds of familiar faces in the barbershop," Jackie says, with enthusiasm I don't recognize on him. "Sam Clawe, before he was murdered, Nat King Cheetah before he died, Marten Gaye, you already know Persano was in, but so was Jerry Vole, and Horn Martin. My father was the one who styled everyone, and I mean everyone, and I was there every day. We don't have the same gathering places that prey do, so we hang out where we can. And the barbershop, well, that was our neighborhood's watering hole. And everybody came to Quartz's."

I give him a smile in the rearview mirror, not looking away from the road. But I can see those eyes, brighter than I've ever seen them. He's watching the bright Saturday pass us by with genuine joy. Enough so that his collar blinks yellow, warning him to calm himself. I've never seen him so open before, it's almost like flicking a switch. Who knew the key to his honesty was music?

"Did you learn the piano in your dad's barbershop?" I ask him.

"Yeah I did; and to sing, too," Jackie replies. "Dad played the saxophone, even wanted me to follow in his footsteps. But I didn't want to have my mouth obstructed. Jerry Vole says he has velvety pipes, but he's nothing compared to me. And my father, he played his horn better than Howlin' Wolf, but never got half the fame. Ain't that a shame? But he was happy, working his shop, and mom was too, even though she had to work as a nurse to keep everything afloat. They were always happy animals."

That, I can attest to. In all of the photos, his parents were always beaming. And none of their smiles was ever false, they were genuinely happy animals. A barber and a nurse living in a fenced off portion of a bigoted city finding happiness sounds like the plot to an animated movie. It just makes me wonder why he seems so sad later in life, and why he's such a miserable mammal now.

"Yeah, they seemed like it in all their pictures," I reply. "Your mom worked as a nurse?"

"Oh, yeah, most of her life," Jackie says cheerily. "During the war, she worked for the WAC abroad. My father always said that while the army brought them together, it was music that kept them from parting."

"What happened to your folks?" I ask as we round the corner. "I saw pictures of them all over the place in your apartment. They seem like great animals."

And just like that, that switch flicks again and it's gone. That look of boundless joy begins to recede on itself and Jackie leans on the door, staring out the window. His collar blinks green, then yellow, as his mood shifts, swinging like a pendulum dangerously between happy and sorrowful. He tugs at his collar and then swallows hard.

"Dad, ugh, died a couple years back," he replies solemnly. "Mom moved up to the Meadowlands with her sister, into an area they could afford together. They were considering going out the Burrows, or maybe upstate, but nothing ever materialized. I don't--I don't see her too often."

"I'm--I'm sorry," I tell him quietly.

He gives me slight smile and a shrug, as if what I said wasn't my fault, but, there's no repairing what I just inadvertently did. His collar blinks green again, and I say nothing. The music, at this volume, now feels out of place. But I let it play, a piece of me hoping that the happy-go-lucky coyote will come back. As I pull the car to a stop in front of my apartment, I turn the radio down.

Jackie looks out the window and up to the top of the very tall building I call my home. Like his home, it's nice, quaint, but obviously not luxurious in any regard. The neighbors are loud, they smoke like chimneys, and I can't enjoy the balcony that overlooks the center court because of them. But the rent is cheap, there aren't any bedbugs, and I'm far away from my own folks, too. Plus, it's a five minute drive from work. What more could a girl ask for?

"Snazzy place," Jackie surveys, his tone only mildly sarcastic.

"You can come up if you want to," I offer him, cracking the door.

"No, ugh, I think I'll wait," Jackie replies. "I've got the radio,"

"Ok," I say, unsure.

I close the door and go towards the front door, the radio playing up a little bit behind me. 'Oh, mercy, mercy me, things ain't what they used to be' hums, just barely audible, from inside my car. All the way up to my apartment, I'm mentally beating my head against the wall. This is why you don't have friends, Jane, because you're a goddamned idiot! Because after all this time, you still don't know how to talk to other animals.

My father would but tutting away, shaking his head in disapproval as much as shame. Daughter of a lawyer and a doctor, who wants to be a detective, and she is as tactful as a monster truck. When I arrive at my apartment, I slip in while listening to the noises coming from all around: the same cries, arguments, and entertainment I heard at Savannah's building.

To say I dislike my place is an overstatement, but to say I like it would be a lie. It's cramped, one bedroom with a kitchen that I can't walk through if someone else is in it. Not that the situation has ever arisen, I don't have any other mammals over either. The living room makes up the largest part, and even that feels tiny. I try to keep it as clutter-free as possible, and the light blue, green, and white walls make it at least feel cozy. And other than my simple furniture, I do no decorations. I guess I just never really wanted to, or felt the need to. I spend all of my time at work anyways.

A little bit of me thought that living in the city like this would mean I'd be surrounded by other mammals all the time, that finding solitude would be impossible. But, I found it to be just the opposite. It's wall-to-wall animals outside, and yet I feel just as isolated as I did when I lived up with my folks. Not that I would choose living with them over here. It costs more here, but only in money. Living at home would cost me emotionally, at a price I can't afford.

So, I try to put all of my time into work, so I'm not at home surrounded by barren walls and cheap furniture I bought on a whim. I wonder why I invited Jackie up, I wouldn't exactly have anything to show him, or for anything to do. Maybe it was just a nice thought, be friendly, right? Maybe so I can take my hooves out of my mouth and seem normal. Having friends over is normal right? Is Jackie a friend? I guess so. What else would he be?

The only thing that stands out is the answering machine just inside the front door. I'm sure it has over a dozen messages, but I walk by it without even listening to them. Unlike Jackie, I'm not dependent on having people reach out to me all the time. If work wants to reach me, they know when I'll be in, which tends to be always. I'm sure a bunch of them are from home, which is hard to think about. The sound of my phone ringing endlessly should be a familiar tone to them.

So I just go into my bedroom, the one with the blank walls and single, unopened window. I change out my sullied uniform, desperate to be laundered, for a more tasteful set of street clothing: light green shirt and matching green pants, with a light brown coat to go over it that hangs down below my waist. Wearing this, nobody would suspect I'm a cop.

Maybe think I'm a model for the fall line at Mousey's, but not a cop.

Despite the disguise, I decide that it might be prudent to take my badge and tranquilizer gun, freshly reloaded, of course, and maybe my radio as well. Of course my collar key and cuff keys come with me, for just in case. With the jacket that hangs around my form, I'm able to hide everything inside. Jackie might be upset with me taking that risk, but I think it's a risk worth taking. One has saved his life before, after all. Well, after he saved mine.

Before I leave my apartment completely, I pass by my own answering machine inside the door again, but this time I pause to look at the little digital number flashing '13' on the display. A little bit of me contemplates whether or not to hit the 'play' button, but I already know what I'm going to hear. Half will be work.

One or two will be my mother, pretending she cares enough to reach out to ask me how I'm doing. What she really wants to ask is if I've found a buck yet, if I'm ready to come home and stop 'playing police officer'. None will be my father, though my mother insists that he does love me. He loves me, but not enough to even bother to call. So I just ignore it, slamming my door and locking it tightly before wading back through the hallway that smells strongly of cheap cigarettes.

When I return, I find Jackie leaning on the hood of my car and I begin to feel a bit happier. The window on the passenger side is rolled down and music is playing from inside. He's just finishing up a Bucky, the short end hanging from his fingertips. He makes sure not to let any of the smoke near my car, which is considerate of him. As I hop off of the stoop, he tosses the butt and the moment of truth happens.

He doesn't notice a thing, though he does give a scoff at my clothes. He says I look like an escaped J.C. Puma mannequin. Relieved that he doesn't immediately perceive my ruse, I jibe him back, saying that he looks like he crashed his time machine and can't get back to 1963. He just crosses his legs and gives a little bow, as if mocking my insult, those cream-colored pants contrasting nicely with the dark grays and whites of his legs, and smiles.

When he asks where we're going to eat, I point across the street, up and over the top of my rolling rouge boat. He looks to it with only fleeting judgement and nods his head. Happy that we can finally get something to eat, my own stomach rumbling beneath my freshly laundered clothing, I round the nose of my car and hop inside to pull the keys. But, as I'm rolling up the window, I listen to the music on the station Jackie picked. Marten Gaye sings softly, admonishingly, as the sun begins to hang low along the wide boulevard.

"Crime is increasing,

Trigger happy policing,

Panic is spreading,

God knows where we're heading . . ."

And I look to Jackie, who waits just outside, and feel a bit of guilt well up within me. But when he asks what's wrong as I shut the door and lock it, I just shake my head. I apologized for what I did, right? I shouldn't feel bad anymore. But the words are poignant, and they cut. I can't get my mind to turn off, leave work where work belongs. I just don't know. The feeling only dissipates as we make our way across the street.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Jackie share a meal before they intend to move on to visiting Jackie's new client. But Jane comes face-to-face with the bigotry of the city around her as patrons and employees alike turn their frustrations and anger on the closest predator they can. Jane then struggles with how she sees her new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky Number 13, eh? Not too much of a description here. Here, we get to see if Jane will prove herself. We're into the 'meat' of Act II now, so they say. Hoping you all like this! Thanks for stopping by!
> 
> Premise: It is August, 1979, and it is nearing the 20 year anniversary since Zootopia has ended forced segregation. But in the wake of the fences coming down, shock collars have gone up. Predators of any age are forced to wear possibly deadly shock collars. For those like private investigator Jack Quartz, a coyote, this is just a fact of life. For beat officer Jane Brooks, a white-tailed deer, it's just another facet of her job. But when a gazelle is murdered by a predator, questions of bigotry, freedom, inter-species relationships, civil rights, and the natural order begin to arise.

Chapter 13:

"...This marks the eighth brutal murder in as many weeks," the reporter states confidently through the television, "and the third predator murderer apprehended by the ZPD, though countless predators have been reported missing. As of yet, City Hall and the Office of the Commissioner have yet to offer a concrete cause for the rise in savagery amongst the predator population, but offer up the following warnings: Beware of those around you. Be cautious of predators acting strangely. Keep them away from children and the elderly. Finally, Mayor Bellwether urges every prey species to remain vigilant. It is unknown when, where, or how the next savage will strike. This is Antony Grasswallow reporting for ZBC, back to you in the studio."

A group of wary patrons hangs under the television playing behind the counter. Consisting mostly of middle aged and younger mammals, mostly ones just coming out of work, they all lean forward in their seats enraptured by the news. A couple are dressed in work clothes, drab and torn from a day of work, or cheap suits. Like me, I bet they work in the finer offices and businesses Downtown and then commute to the more affordable outer districts.

They murmur as the reporter, who was standing in front of City Hall, cuts the feed to the studio somewhere Downtown. While the anchor continues on with his spiel unabated by the noise in this diner, the crowd begins to disperse. They return to their meals, or to their jobs, with the sound of silverware on plates followed soon after by quiet chatter. The waitress that helped me, a very pretty impala, steps away as well. She seems worried, but manages to hide it well. It's the eyelashes that give it away, and the twitch in her ears.

The reporter is accurate. Three predators gone completely nutso, though only one was a serial killer, and I'm not including the ones who just became 'unhinged'. Like Joffer, all of his victims seemed to be prey, but unlike Joffer, he seemed to have been hunting them for food and for sport. None of it makes any sense to me. Predators don't commit the kind of crimes that many prey species can get away with. The tame collars, for their flaws, keep most of that from happening, because the moment your heart rate rises, or your adrenaline spikes: shock. The only pred murderers are cold, collected, detached, and unfeeling. Sociopaths. And you don't find more than a handful of mammals that are true sociopaths like that.

I need to stop thinking about work so much. Then again, I wish I had something else to think about. Jackie stopped outside to make a phone call, and is currently stuffed into the booth corresponding to his species' size. He told me he needed to call Bastion, to tie up that case. And while from behind the diner's wide glass window and the privacy door on the booth I hear nothing, I can guess how the phone call is going.

The expressions that dance across Jackie's face, as well as the letters he draws with the smoke trailing from the Bucky he lit about three minutes ago, Bastion must be going through every stage of grief over the telephone. First comes shock, Jackie miming a 'stop, stop, stop' motion into the booth. Then comes bargaining, with Jackie shaking his head and leaning on the wall. Next it's anger, with the handset being held away from his head while his ears fold back. Lastly, it's sorrow, which Jackie takes standing still, his lips motionless. With every change of mood, Jackie becomes more visibly beaten down until he's finally off the phone.

When he's finally outside, he throws his back against the closed door of the booth and heaves a sigh of relief. It makes me wonder why he does this job at all, though a part of me can already guess. I've said it before and I'll say it again, watching him makes me think he's a police officer out of uniform. It makes me sad he can't serve with me, he'd make a fine partner.

The waitress, that pretty impala, already brought me my water. What's odd is that I had to convince her to not only bring another menu, but another glass as well. I don't recognize her from when I usually eat at this place, but, I must be familiar to her. She gives me this odd look, as if I'm pulling her leg. Only when I insist does she relent. Maybe she thinks I'm eating alone once again and just pretending otherwise. The Pasture, a diner off of one of Herd Street, is a place I frequent quite often.

I tell myself that it's for the aging chrome art deco stylings, barely comfortable faux-leather seats, and relatively inexpensive menu. But, the real reason is that it's directly across the street from my apartment, and that I could burn down my building just trying to boil water. Plus, it doesn't hurt that the portion sizes are more than generous.

Jackie crosses the sidewalk after a moment's rest and deposits the butt of his cigarette into the receptacle just outside. As he enters the building, the bell above the door frame jingles. A large flock of sheep who sit across from me becomes very quiet, watching as the coyote who has just entered their midst rounds the back of the booth seat across from me and slides in across from me. I give him a moment to take a sip from his drink before even considering to ask him how that went.

"What's he doing here?" A voice whispers loudly.

"Bastion didn't know," Jackie says, putting his glass of water down again, "about his girlfriend's murder, I mean. He already pretty much knew she was cheating, but, didn't know the path she went down. He thought he saw the news on TV over breakfast, but, it didn't click until I called. Poor guy. It's gonna be a really hard week for him."

"Is that blood around his shoulder?" Another one pipes up.

I swallow hard, watching as some of the rams in the booth across the aisle from us begin to shuffle around, pushing their families into the center. One of the males, dressed in a cheap suit, goes to get up, but is pulled down by another at the table. Jackie doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he isn't letting on. I hope he doesn't.

"I can't believe he wasn't the one notified," I tell him, only half genuine.

"Well, apparently she had relatives living nearby, and they went to the blood relative first," Jackie explains. "They weren't married and she never changed any of her emergency contact information at work to his name. So, he didn't get the hat-in-hand visit from the boys in blue. I wasn't expecting a bonus from him anyways, but, I suppose there's always hope. I just wish it wasn't me that had to tell him that. Jesus Capybara."

"You should say something," a ewe voice hisses, "his kind isn't allowed in here. You heard the news!"

"Yeah, what if he's the next to go mad? He'll go right for the lambs," another one adds to the chorus. "Just look at him. Damn, dirty coyote. I can't believe they let his kind on the street."

"Just be quiet," one of the rams commands quietly. "Maybe that predo with him will keep him in line. Just be quiet and it'll be fine. There's too many of us here, he can't hurt us when we're together. Stick to the flock."

I feel myself go cold and grab my upper arm with my free hand and try to turn my head away. Jackie doesn't say anything, and his face doesn't even let on that he's heard anything. I know canines have very sensitive sight and smell, but I think maybe my ears might be more acute than his. I hope so, I don't want him to hear that. Not here, not now.

Over Jackie's shoulder, I see the waitress round the corner, which makes me calm down. We can just order our food and be on with our night. She has nothing in her hands and chats up a few of the tables she passes on the other side of the room before continuing on to where we sit. She's a cheery one, relatively young, though older than either I or Jackie are. She's been pleasant enough so far.

But as she notices that the other side of the booth has been magically filled with a living mammal and not some imaginary creature or stuffed animal, the look on her face seems to change. It's a mixture of surprise and confusion that seems oddly familiar to me. But she doesn't stop walking, simply continuing towards our side of the dining room.

As she crosses the foyer, somebody from the table across the way clears their throat and she turns to them to serve them first. She approaches the table and the large ram in the cheap suit leans across the table and begins whispering to her. I use the word 'whispering' very loosely, as he's loud enough for not only us to hear, but probably the whole building.

"I did not come here after work to have to deal with--with that," the ram insists, hissing through clenched teeth.

"I'm so sorry, sir," the waitress replies courteously.

"You better be sorry," a ewe says, cupping a hand around her muzzle. "Have you seen the news? Some jaguar tore apart six people uptown, that leopard mutilates somebody in Happy Town, and now they're saying every predator in this city could go the same way. I don't feel safe."

"I'm going to handle it, ma'am, don't worry," the waitress whispers, barely audible.

"Thank you," the other ram says.

The waitress nods with an uneasy smile and then turns around towards us. Jackie seems to sense whatever is coming and doesn't look towards either I or the waitress.

"I'm so sorry," the waitress says, looking to me first, then glancing to Jackie quickly. "I think there must have been some kind of mistake."

"Oh, no mistake whatsoever," I tell her, laughing nervously. "The other person I was waiting for is her now, so, we're ready to order."

Jackie doesn't look up. He begins to peruse over the menu on his side of the table, which is several pages thick and printed on large, laminated sheets of paper. It's almost as if he's actively ignoring the waitress now. While I wish I could say I don't know why, the reason eats at the back of my head. The table across from us is silent, as it a lot of the restaurant. All eyes are on us, or maybe it just feels that way.

"No, I meant that there must be some mistake on your part, ma'am," the waitress says, trying her best to stay cheery. "You see, we generally don't cater to, ugh, carnivore tastes. Our menu is pretty limited when it comes to non-vegetarian palates."

"Well, that's fine," Jackie finally says quite calmly, lifting his menu slightly from the table to bury his nose in it. "As you know, canines are omnivores, not carnivores. Your menu should be fine."

"Sir, I think you may be happier eating somewhere else," the waitress repeats herself, this time becoming less cheery and more insistent. "There's another diner three blocks over on Lionheart Avenue, the Roaring Waters, which you should find is a little more prepared to cater to your tastes. Alternatively, you could always eat at the Bugburga around the corner."

Jackie doesn't look up this time, and he doesn't immediately reply. My mind skips several beats as I try to process what's going on here. The group across the aisle watches us intently, and several other tables have the corner of their eyes situated on us. The television in the corner babbles out the rest of the six o'clock news, consisting of crime statistics, the mayor's statement, the upcoming election, and the weather. Is . . . is this what this looks like?

"No, I don't want to eat any trash Bugburga is selling," Jackie says, his collar giving a low beep as the status light changes color into yellow. "And there aren't any signs telling me that I can't eat here."

"No, sir," the waitress says firmly. "But, I believe it would be in the best interest of the rest of our customers if you choose to dine elsewhere."

The tension is palpable. I hear the ram clear his throat from across the aisle and rise slightly, as if hoping it'll push Jackie out. It's like they're saying he goes out one of two ways, one of which doesn't end well. That's what going on here. They want him out just because he's a predator. This isn't fear, this is something completely different. But my tongue is tied.

"Are you going to throw me out?" Jackie finally asks, his collar beeping again, this time more rapidly.

It'll shock him soon if he doesn't calm down.

"I wouldn't dare to," the waitress says, dropping all kindly pretenses. "Three predators like you have gone savage this summer, and eight of us are dead. We don't want to take the chance that you'll be number four, coyote. So the moment your tame collar goes off to keep your temper in check, I'll have no choice but to call the police and watch as they throw your savage, mammal-eating predator tail behind bars. Now, please, leave!"

The two rams stand up, as if to assist her. They expect him to lose it any moment, they're goading him. They're doing the same thing I did in the car. Yes, that's what's happening here. My brain finally clicks and it really hits home. I won't let this happen. Not again, not if I can stop it, before the laughter. But before Jackie can respond, even remotely, I stand up and look across, almost down, at the impala to get her attention. What a shame, she was so pretty just a few moments before, especially her fine tan coat and long eyelashes.

"I don't think so, honey," I tell her, pulling my glimmering golden badge from within my jacket. "We're not eating anywhere else. In fact, I think you're going to take our orders, both of them, with a smile. You're going to be nothing but courteous to this and any other 'savage' that sets paw in this establishment. Because the moment you make that phone call to the precinct, you're going to find out just how fucking fun it is to deal with a detective that has a bone to pick and a lot of time on her hands."

Stepping backwards, up onto the fake leather seating, I stand as tall as I can to make certain that everyone in this whole goddamned building can see me and my badge. The flock of sheep across the aisle gaze at me with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a bit of primal fear as well. A few smaller groups across the foyer stare at me dumbfounded, with jaws hanging open and eyes open wide. I hold my badge up for everyone to see, swinging it about in the light.

"And that goes for the rest of you!" I cry out, a mixture of sorrow and anger coursing through me. "If anyone of you has a problem with this or any other predator, you come see me. What the hell is wrong with you animals? He's done nothing wrong. As a cop, I know what it's like to see the worst this city has to offer! Despite that, I still try to see the best in people, even when it's hard. And I understand, the world is scary, and it's easy to distrust, to hate. But just because a few predators have done awful things doesn't mean that any others will. It doesn't mean that this one will! I thought this city promised that anyone could be anything! Please, for just one moment, deliver on that promise."

Many of the expressions change from anger or surprise to contrition and guilt. Many turn away, ashamed, and begin to murmur either ascent or at least quiet acceptance. The flock of sheep across the aisle from us is split. The younger members appear shameful and don't look to me. The rams, on the other hand, as well as the older few are angry, though at least the edge has been broken off. They sit back down and try not to make eye contact. Seeing my point has been made very clear, I step back off of the chair and sit down, my heart rushing inside my chest, my mind whirring with excitement.

I put my badge down on the table, the steel clicking as it makes contact with the veneer-topped table. The waitress looks to both me and my badge with pure shock, her mouth agape and her brow high on her forehead. Then she seems to silently weigh her options, her brow tightening and her ears folding back against her head. Finally, she pulls a pad and pen from her short apron and flips it open to a clean page.

"Shall we start with a drink, then?" She asks, defeated.

"Thank you," I tell her, feeling victorious. "I'll stick with my water for now, but what will you have, Mr. Savage?"

"A-a coffee. Yeah, just, uh, coffee, black," Jackie stutters, dumfounded.

The waitress writes down her order and then scurries away, her tail tucked between her legs in defeat. I could swear I could see her ready to leap behind the table with those powerful antelope legs. Afterwards there is an awkward silence. The tables around us mutter to themselves. I can't make out a lot of it, but, I hear a mixture of normal conversations picking up and a few pondering their own actions.

Jackie sits in silence for a long time, looking to me. His bright, blue eyes are wide open, staring at me, his lips open just enough that I can see some of his teeth. The light on his collar turns green and gives a gentle 'beep' to let us all know he's calmed down. Then he begins to fuss with his napkin, his fingers jerkily tearing it up, spreading the silverware out, then straightening them, and then spreading them out again.

"You-you didn't have to do that," he says sheepishly. "I'm used to it by now."

"Of course I did," I tell him, picking up my new detective's shield to survey it. "I'm a detective now, I'm supposed to protect and serve. I'm not going to let some mammal with a chip on her shoulder, backed up by some burgeoning mob bully my friend."

"Your friend?" He says, barely audibly, as if he can't process those simple words.

"Of course, what else are you?" I ask him, shrugging.

His lips stumble over his words for a few seconds before he sighs.

"Huh, well, I think you're a little late to that party, Hooves," Jackie says, looking away sorrowfully. "I've spent the last twenty-eight years trying to navigate a world filled to the brim will mammals who see ones like me as nothing but trash, or worthless. As savage. It's because of people like them that I grew up behind a fence, asking my mom and dad why I couldn't go to Poney Island in the summer or to the schools that weren't collapsing in on themselves in the fall. Animals like them," he nods towards the sheep, "keep me in the tame collar."

He lifts his chin and I see it again, after so much time trying to forget it exists. That tame collar. One little slip up, one wrong word or forgotten emotion, and you can be killed by it. The key weighs heavily in my pocket and I absentmindedly twist it around between my thumb and finger.

"I could take it off, you know," I whisper to him. "If it were me, you wouldn't have to wear that stupid tame collar anymore. You don't need it."

I've never had that thought before, let alone say it aloud. But it's true, and it feels good to say. Some of that mental storm I've had since the arrest begins to dissipate. Jackie simply chuckles nervously and then looks away, out the window towards the setting sun. Deep inside, both of us know that's impossible. The moment he steps out into the open without his tame collar on for any reason except a medical one or an emergency, he's prison-bound. Assuming the ARU doesn't send him back in a body bag. And then I'd go to Ram's Island too for my troubles, just for wanting him to be free for a while.

"I'm starting to really dislike people like her, like them," I tell him before suddenly adding, "Jackie, I'm--I'm sorry."

"For what?" He asks, surprised. "You didn't make her like she is, or any of them either."

He puts his paws down onto the tabletop and I do as well.

"What? No, no for how I've treated you," I continue.

Without much of a thought, I gently touch the top of his hand. To my surprise, he doesn't recoil, though the thought seems to cross his mind when his eyes cut down to see what I've done. No, instead, he turns his hand over and takes it tentatively.

"Whenever I hear people like her, I can't help but hear my father's voice cutting through," I admit to him, trying to relax myself. "He's a prosecutor for the city. Or, at least he was until he retired. He has singlehanded put more predators behind bars than anyone else I know, and he did it with glee. I think he saw himself as some sort of caped crusader, but with a briefcase, putting bad guys behind bars one at a time. Where they belong, he insisted."

"Seems like a lovely guy," Jackie says, with a kind, understanding tone that doesn't mesh up with his words.

He gives my hand a squeeze, as if to comfort me. The honest truth is that I haven't spoken to anyone about my family, ever, and I think he knows it. That includes the 'friends' I had in college, in the old neighborhood, anywhere. I don't know why I suddenly feel the urge to talk about them now, here to somebody I met less than 24 hours ago. But he keeps holding my hand, and that's enough.

"I guess some saw him like that," I continue, my voice straining a bit. "But I always saw him as some delusional megalomaniac, trying to rebuild the fences that separated preds and prey. And every time I look at you, I get this pang, this cutting feeling in my chest. I wonder if I'm him."

Jackie's look transitions into gentle surprise, but the warmth from his exposed pads continues to radiate into my fur. He even gives me another squeeze, to let me know that he isn't letting go. I'm not being rejected. A hot feeling rushes into my eyes, and into my stomach, and my ears to, as if I'm about to start bawling in public. Jesus Capybara, I haven't done that since I was a fawn!

"Come on, Hooves, you're not," Jackie sweetly says.

"But I am, a little," I assert to him, trying to be quiet, but not stopping the torrent of emotion inside. "I gambled your freedom to finally get my promotion with the captain, Jackie, I know you heard that. Then I held you in chains, scared that you'd run just to spite me, just to spite some prey cop who was unfairly imprisoning you. And what do I do when you finally start talking to me? Goad you into shocking yourself with that stupid collar! And you have to go and save my life, for which I will never, ever be able to repay you! Even after all that, you saved my life. I keep telling myself that I'm not like him, that I'm not that bigoted, self-entitled asshole in a suit like him. But, at the end of the day, I'm still daddy's little fawn."

Closing my eyes, no longer able to look at him, I turn my nose down and feel a tear or two run down the top layer of my fur. I can't bring myself to look at him, to see the coyote I've been tormenting for over a day now, projecting all of my worst fears, anxieties, and hatreds onto. But he doesn't let my hand go. And after a few seconds, I calm down and open my eyes to see him still sitting there, same as before. His ears are tall, his eyes wide and blue.

It feels like a thousand pounds have been lifted off of my shoulders after so much time, just to talk, to finally talk. And it feels so good to not be pushed away.

'Hey, it's ok. You don't have to apologize," he tells me, shaking his head. "You didn't know who I was, or what I stood for. I could have been any sleazy lowlife, but not because I'm a predator. Sure, what you did was kind of dickish, but, I don't blame you for it. I may have done the same if the roles were reversed."

Then he is quiet, while I study his face. His nose is smaller than mine, but that muzzle is so much sharper, longer. He's got these whiskers, too, sort of like a cat's, that stick out to both sides from just behind that black nose. Most of the underside of his face is white, while the upper side is a mixture of gray and tan, but he's got these two little black spots on either side of his nose, something I hadn't noticed. I almost feel like I never really saw this mammal, and that I'm just now bothering to even look at him; to see him.

I guess I didn't really see him as anything, not even a person. But he is, and he's unique, and good, even if he's got a wide smile filled with sharp teeth. And it's a good smile, a handsome one. My stomach does summersaults inside me and I chuckle a little, sniffling, wondering at the words flowing through my mind. Jackie gives a quiet hum as well.

"You've been bottling that up for a long time, huh?" He asks me, with only a hint of playfulness.

I nod and lean forward, sighing and running the sleeve of my free hand across my muzzle to mop up some of my tears. My god. I can't talk to anybody I know about any of this stuff, but here I am doing it with someone that I hardly even know, and not only someone I hardly know, but a predator. And one I arrested to boot! My father would have an aneurism, and I would be glad for it.

"You were right when you said you thought I had no friends," I say quietly. "I think growing up the way I did twisted me. It isolated me. I want to say that I became a cop to help mammals everywhere in possibly the greatest city to have ever existed, maybe right some of the wrongs in the world. But I think I did it to get away from them, to try to succeed or fail on my own. You know, I graduated near the top of my class at the academy. But getting placed into a precinct was excruciating, like they hadn't planned on ever having to put me anywhere. It was like they thought I wouldn't ever make it and the problem would just go away on its own. But then I was in the 12th precinct, on the job. I guess, it just makes me wonder. Did he make a phone call?"

"You shouldn't," Jackie insists, reassuringly. "You got this all on your own. Just because you got there in an unconventional way doesn't make it the wrong way. You have no one to thank but yourself. Never forget that. Everything you do is just that: you. The good, the bad, everything in-between. And nothing your parents--your father--ever say or do will change that. Don't go to bed owing anybody anything."

I smile at his words, and then realize that I've been talking about myself this entire time. Actually, it feels kind of good to finally talk about something other than work and the usual small-talk animals have in the hallways and between their desks. This is like every date that I wish I had, rolled into one, without the condescending or misplaced compliments and hopes that you aren't sweating too much.

Suddenly the waitress returns and delivers his coffee, as well as a soda for me that she insists is on the house. When she asks what we'll be ordering, I pick the wilderness salad with apple dressing, and he orders a breakfast platter with a double order of the hash browns. The waitress diligently takes it down and then disappears again. We get no comment from the peanut gallery, not even a cough or a chuckle. The food should be out soon.

"What about your family?" I ask him, feeling a bit guilty, but a good kind of guilty. "From everything you've said, they sound like a dream."

"Oh, yeah, I grew up loving my parents, even if we struggled sometimes. Dad worked the barbershop, you know, the one below the apartment, and Mom worked as a nurse. And, well, things were ok. But he wanted more than that, for Mom and for me. He wanted to escape, to not get stuck in the same cycle that traps preds in poverty, lack of education, and crime. The worst thing he could do is see me grow to become a barber or stylist like him. That shop was his burden to bear and he didn't want me to inherit it.

"So he started saving when I was a puppy. A little here, a little there. Until he had enough money for his dream: his own club and theater. There's this place on Cyprus Grove Way pretty far down and out of the theater district, a disused old place by the old park. But it was on the prey side of the old fence line, across the canal. Dad saved up most of his life for it, until he had enough for a sizable down payment. But, the owners didn't want to sell to him, because he was a pred. So they leaned on the banks, and they redlined him. He never got the loan. It broke him, in a way. He died about three years back, now, though he might as well have died earlier. And I haven't spoken to Mom since."

"I'm so sorry," I tell him, though not feeling as guilty as I did earlier.

He doesn't look sad for having told me. That smile doesn't go away like before, though he does give me a little wave with his free hand, as if what I asked didn't matter. Then he sighs, the packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket crinkling.

"Ah, don't worry about it. Dad and I didn't see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. A bit of me feels like I drove him into the coffin, but I couldn't stop the cancer. As for Mom, well, I know she loves me, and she knows I love her. I'm hoping Dad's dream won't die with him, though. I wanna do what he couldn't. Someday, right?"

I give him a smile, glad to hear that. The waitress reappears with our food and we only stop holding hands in order to eat. While Jackie seems to eat ravenously, I have him beat out. I guess I didn't realize how long it's been since I ate anything at all. Jesus, it must have been yesterday before my shift started that I ate anything at all. And the only thing I've really eaten since then is the drink I had at the Aries with Jackie.

A theater? Jackie Quartz wants to run and own his own club? I'm not sure what I had expected him to want to do in life, but a bit of me is surprised that that is it. Then again, everything that I know about him could be written up and printed on a tri-fold pamphlet, and most of that I've learned in the last few hours alone.

Actually, it sounds really nice. My dream has always been to be strong, independent, a fantastic officer and somebody to envy. Maybe rise to commissioner, change the whole system for the better to leave my mark. At least, I thought I did. But I didn't want to succeed on my name or my family, so I wanted to start as a bottom-level cop, work my way up through the detective's bureau into high command. And it seems my dream is starting to come true, at least a little bit.

About ten minutes later, the flock of sheep across from us pays and leaves. While we get some grumbles and miserable looks from the older ewes and rams, it's quiet. And I get the satisfaction that I didn't let their hatreds and fears rule the day. Jackie finishes his meal as well and then sits across, basking in the glory of a fantastic meal. We know we have to move on soon, to meet the client who called, but, I keep thinking. His eyes dart about, as if his mind is working as well. Then we both lean forward.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" We say in unison.

He chuckles and then fumbles around.

"You go ahead," he insists, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling awkward.

"I don't want to really pry, so stop me if I'm getting too personal, but, you've said you've been alone for a while," I say, trying my best to sound tactful. "Did--did you ever sing your song?"

He doesn't become sullen, though he does look away for a moment. Unlike last time I asked something I suspect might be too much, I don't seem to have hit that switch to turn him off. But the question does seem uncomfortable for him. My ears fold back and I go to retract the question, or at least redirect it somewhere else. But I can't form any words, only sounds that tumble from between my lips. Jackie notices and stops me with a gentle smile.

"How much do you trust me?" He asks, seemingly out of left field.

"Trust you?" I ask him

Why does that phrase seem familiar?

"You saved my life. I trust you immensely, Jackie," I insist to him.

"I know, but, how much do you trust me?" He repeats himself, his nose turning down slightly. "Would you let me lead you into a really bad part of town, where only predators live, all alone, without that gun or badge? Miles and miles away from any prey that would hear you scream. And no help to be found?"

He's testing me. And it's a test that I'm now well prepared for. I look to him, a bit surprised, but then tighten my jaw up and give a nervous smile. I don't feel as much pressure to say the right thing.

"Yes, I would, Jackie Quartz," I tell him calmly, as if conjuring those words took no effort whatsoever. "To the ends of this world."

He smiles and then begins to slide from his seat. Snatching up my badge, which was still laying out on the table, he stands and presents it to me. I take it and begin to pull money from my pocket to pay for our meal, something I did insist to him that I would do. Then he begins to step backwards, making me very, very confused.

"Where are you going?" I ask him.

"I don't want to just tell you," he replies. "I think it's better if I show you. But you have to trust me. And you can't get angry."

"I won't, I swear," I tell him.

He just smiles and then begins to lead me out. The remaining patrons watch us go, like we're a couple of freaks. Screw them. This is possibly the best meal that I've ever eaten in my life. And, yes, that includes all the fancy dinner parties that my parents threw, all of the holidays, and all of the dates I've ever had. No, it's at some middle of the road diner with a terrible atmosphere and gaudy decorations, with a predator I've known for less than a day, surrounded by people I assumed were better than they actually are. And, at least for an hour or so, I didn't think about much of anything. With my badge now safely tucked back inside my pocket, work could be a million miles away.


End file.
